


Fault Lines

by DinerGuy



Category: Magnum P.I. (TV 2018)
Genre: And then the plot bunnies turned into monsters, Angst, Drama, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family, Fight Scene, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I don't even know how this happened, It was supposed to be a simple whump fic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump, all the feels, fistfights, possible trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-06 02:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20283802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinerGuy/pseuds/DinerGuy
Summary: A break-in at Robin's Nest leaves Magnum fighting for his life and his friends determined to find the person responsible. But, even if they succeed, will their friend pull through? And will Higgins ever forgive herself for what happened?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would like you all to know that this started out as a totally different animal. It was going to be a one-chapter whumpy fic with humor mixed in and a little comfort at the end. I somehow ended up with this... Sneaky little plot bunnies of doom... *glares*
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Also, thanks to frankie_mcstein and truthtakestime for being my sounding boards and beta readers.
> 
> Sticking some PTSD/POW-trauma trigger warnings on here, just to be safe.

_(Magnum)_

I want nothing more than a nice, long, hot shower and to fall into bed and not talk to anyone for at least twelve hours.

It's been a long past two days working a robbery case that led me to a guy who thought he was the new crime boss of the island—when, really, he was just a wanna-be criminal with a crew of lackeys and really high aspirations. Somehow, because I have all the luck sometimes, I ended up getting recruited into their ranks. I'm still not sure if I can call it _ good _luck, exactly, but, after the sleepless night I put in to gather evidence, it had all worked out.

Well, it had worked out in that I managed to gather enough evidence and, with the help of Katsumoto, get the bad guys caught in the act. What _ hadn't _ worked out was one of the gang catching onto the fact that the new guy was double-crossing them. To top it all off, it just so happened the crew was stealing an independent fisherman's newest catch—something about "intimidation"—with me conveniently along for the ride. Which was when I learned just how painful it was to land on a pile of fish after being punched in the jaw next to the edge of a ship's hold. Painful and weird and slimy—really weird and slimy. Trust me; it's an experience I never want to repeat.

Grumbling in complaint to no one in particular, I step into the guest house and eye the couch longingly… I know I need a shower, but it's almost midnight, and the cushions are practically calling my name. The housekeeper can always wash the slipcovers, right?

Somewhere in the back of my brain, a little voice that sounds an awful lot like Higgy speaks up and immediately begins chewing me out for even thinking that way. _ "You do realize the rancid smell of raw fish will permeate the _ entire _ couch, don't you? There is no soap on earth strong enough to clean it all out. You might as well just drag the piece of furniture to the curb and save everyone the time. And why haven't you changed clothes yet anyway?" _

I glower in the direction of the couch. Imaginary Higgy was right, though. I'll end up leaving a pretty terrible smell if I pass out on the furniture without showering. As much as I don't really want to delay sleeping, I _ do _want to avoid a lecture on ruining Robin's things and being told I owe whatever-amount-of-money to buy a replacement couch—which, knowing Higgy, will definitely happen. I'm also not particularly fond of the idea of waking up to an awful stench after giving it a chance to ferment overnight. I smell bad enough as it is already.

I force my tired feet toward the bathroom for what I decide will be the fastest shower on record—but it doesn't end up being so once I'm under the pounding water and realize how well the fancy showerhead works at massaging the aches plaguing my muscles. By the time I finish and throw on the first t-shirt and shorts I find in my drawer, my stomach is demanding attention over sleep. I realize, with everything that went down with the case, I've somehow forgotten to eat anything besides a protein bar around eight this morning—nearly sixteen hours ago? Yeah, I'm overdue for dinner.

A quick search of my refrigerator reveals only beer and an empty egg carton, and my freezer boasts a single package of uncooked bacon—which might be tempting if I actually felt like taking the time to defrost it. The pancake mix in my pantry seems promising until I realize I don't have any of the required eggs—and, after a quick shake of the cardboard box, my inner Higgy demands an explanation for why I put an empty carton back on the shelf in the first place.

I frown, too frustrated and tired to deal with this at the moment. Maybe I'll just skip the whole food thing and worry about it after I get a few hours of sleep. My stomach growls in complaint at that idea, and I sigh.

Wait. Higgy probably has food in her kitchen! Granted, she probably has some really weird stuff, but she'll at least have _ something _ I can eat. If nothing else, maybe I can find Kumu and guilt her into making something for me.

But then I remember the older woman won't be at the estate this late at night, and Higgy told me three days ago _ she _ wouldn't be here tonight. Oh well. Hopefully, there will still be something halfway decent in her fridge. If not, I suppose I can last a day without food if I have to. I've been through worse.

The next question is if I can make it to the house without getting attacked by the hellhounds—sorry, Dobermans. I still haven't figured out why they don't like me, but the feeling is mutual with the way they're always chasing me around. I'm positive they'll eat me if Higgy ever gives them permission.

However, I am famished and decide it's worth risking life and limb to get to the main house. I figure I can look at it this way: if the dogs _ do _ eat me, at least they'll put me out of my aching, starving misery.

I crack open the door and look around. There's no sign of either Doberman and no sounds to indicate they're nearby. That doesn't mean they aren't hiding in the shadows just waiting to pounce, but it is somewhat promising. I might just make it to the main house alive after all.

Thankfully, I do survive the quick trek across the grass. I'm not sure where the dogs are at the moment, but all that really matters is they aren't anywhere near me. I make sure to shut the side door into Robin's kitchen tightly behind me, though, just in case.

Turning toward the fridge, I'm already thinking of what I might find. Hopefully, it isn't just leftovers of whatever fru-fru dish Higgy had for dinner—

A noise from the other room makes me freeze in my tracks.

Visions of sharp teeth and slavering jaws dance through my head, and I swallow. I'm not scared, just… concerned. The dogs might run around the corner so fast they scratch Robin's nice wood floors, and I can't let that happen. Higgy won't be happy if she comes home to find gouges in the hallway, although I am pretty sure I can get away with blaming the dogs for that.

I stand still and tilt my head to listen. No growling or barking meets my ears, and I'm not quite sure what to think. Could it have been something falling off a shelf or the AC kicking on? I hold my breath, listening for more sounds, but several seconds tick by with nothing else drifting down the hallway.

Relaxing, I release the breath I've been holding. I'm sure it's as simple as the fact that I'm tired and starving. After all, I _ have _ been awake for somewhere around two days, plus I haven't eaten for half of that, so it probably just has me more on edge than I would be otherwise. And you know how it is whenever you're alone; every little noise seems way bigger and more dangerous. Shaking my head at myself, I reach for the fridge door again—

And hear it again. This time, I am absolutely _ certain _it isn't just the AC. No, this sounds decidedly more… alive.

I reach for the large metal fruit bowl sitting on the counter, moving as slowly as I can to avoid making any noise of my own. If it's the Dobermans, I won't need an improvised weapon, of course. As much as I dislike their obvious desire to devour me, I also would never hurt an animal if I don't have to. No, if it's the dogs, I'll just make a quick escape out the side door and leave them inside the house or climb on top of the fridge if necessary.

Except now, I can tell this _ isn't _ the dogs. I can hear the sound of human footsteps moving around— _ inside _ Robin's house—when no one is supposed to be home. There are only a handful of reasons I can think of why someone would be in Robin's house right now, and almost none of them are good. So you bet I'm in need of a weapon.

I tilt the bowl to the side to empty it of its contents, being careful to catch the assortment of fruits before they spill all over the floor. Then, armed as best as I can be at a moment's notice—and annoyed I hadn't thought I needed to bring my sidearm with me because of course I wouldn't need it for a quick visit to Robin's house—I slowly pad in the direction the noises are coming from.

If I had time, I could find one of the guns I'm sure Higgy has hidden somewhere in the house. There's one in a fake book in the study, I know that, but I'm not sure I can get to it unseen and I don't know where any others are. I need to make a note to get a list from Higgy later.

Either way, this'll have to do for now.

As I move down the hall and near the doorway to the study, I can make out the sound of low male voices. There seem to be at least two of them. Now, the question is, what are they doing here? Is it just a burglary? And how did they get onto the grounds in the first place? I make another mental note, this one to check on the alarm at the front gate later; something must be wrong with it. I took care of the easily picked lock on the beach gate months ago.

Close enough to finally make out what the intruders are saying, I can hear angry words.

"Where are they? You said there's two of them, but I haven't seen them once the whole way here!"

"Who knows?" someone else retorts. "I'm not the dog whisperer. They're probably just out on the grounds someplace."

"Lucky for you I thought to bring steak," the first man snaps back. "Maybe we can tempt them out from wherever they are."

Well, this is interesting. Of all the reasons for someone to break into Robin's estate, dognapping hadn't ranked very high on my list. Higgy isn't going to believe this.

I'll tell her later, of course. First, I need to call in reinforcements. No one else is home, and, while that's good because it means no one else is in danger, it's also bad because it means I'm on my own. I _ might _ be able to take both guys in a fair fight, but I have no idea if they're armed or if there are more than just the two distinct voices I can make out. Contrary to what readers of the White Knight series might think, I can't reasonably expect to take on two or more armed bad guys while unarmed myself and live to tell the tale of how I'd bested them.

Yeah, I really wish part of my security measures had been to learn the location of Higgy's weaponry. Note to self for whenever I wrap this night up. And get some sleep.

I back up a few steps and reach in my pocket for my phone, then swear under my breath as I remember leaving it on the bathroom counter.

This just keeps getting better.

Quietly turning back toward the kitchen, I decide to hurry back to the guest house, retrieve my gun and phone, call HPD for help, and then… well, I'll go from there. Anything those guys might take, other than Zeus and Apollo, is just stuff that can be replaced, but I'm confident I can keep them from leaving and get the whole thing taken care of before Higgy gets back.

I turn on my heel—

—and suddenly find myself face-to-face with a guy in a ski mask.

So much for stealth.

"Who are you?" Judging from his tone, he's as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

There is no way the guy's buddies can't hear the shout, and I know I have almost zero time to get the upper hand. I _ could _ just let the situation play out, but I don't have high hopes this crew will leave peacefully without what they've come for. And, as much as it pains me to admit it, there's no way I'm letting them leave with the dogs.

Which leaves me only two options: either get the upper hand or get to a phone somehow—and the second isn't an option with the guy blocking my path. So I take a deep breath and throw the bowl at him. It bounces off the wall by his head, missing him completely, but it's enough of a distraction because I'm already lunging forward.

I catch him in a near-perfect football tackle that drives him backward, and we both go down in a heap. I see a pistol bulging from his waistband, and I go for it. If I can just get my hands on the weapon, I stand a better chance of taking these guys down—or at least, scaring them off—than I currently do.

We scuffle on the floor, rolling over each other in a desperate bid to gain the upper hand. I manage to get on top and land a blow to his jaw, but I've barely grabbed his gun when he launches himself up and over. The motion sends me in one direction and the pistol, which I don't have a full grasp on yet, in another.

The bad guy jumps to his feet, and I scramble up and go for him again, again sending us both crashing to the floor. He somehow manages to throw me over his head, and I slam into the doorframe of the living room and fall to the floor near one of the sofas, wincing at the pain flashing through my side from where I hit the sharp wooden corner.

I can hear footsteps in the hall from the other intruders, but I have no time to pay them any attention before my current foe is back on me. He grabs me from behind in a chokehold, and I can feel him squeezing the air from my windpipe. Throwing all of my weight back, I thrust my legs off the floor and twist my body, hoping to use the momentum to my advantage. Sure enough, the two of us go flying backward.

Thankfully, the other guy is still underneath me, and he smashes into the hard back of the furniture we flip over. I hear a dull cracking noise as I tumble over the seat of the sofa, hitting the edge of the coffee table on my way down, and hear the guy groan as he goes limp.

I scramble to my feet, but I'm barely standing when there's a yell from the doorway. I look up in time to see the barrel of a gun pointing in my direction and throw myself back to the floor as the gunshot echoes through the room. The bullet smashes into the coffee table next to me, and I hear the splintering of wood as it goes through.

Two more shots fire off, and I look around for something to throw. I can't wait for this guy to run out of bullets; he'll come around the sofa and take me out any minute.

My eyes land on a set of decorative glass spheres on the coffee table, and I shake my head as I think about what Higgy will say. And then I ignore that thought, leap up, and grab one of the balls. I chuck it as hard as I can in the gunman's direction and then jump up and lunge over the sofa in the same motion.

The guy instinctively moves aside as the projectile whizzes past his face. It shatters against the corner of the wall, but it gives me enough time to reach him before he can draw on me again.

I slam into him, grabbing his right hand with my left and then smashing my free hand into his gun to dislodge it. He isn't expecting that, and I'm able to disarm him with the maneuver. I briefly consider going for the weapon, but then my opponent's fist is coming at my face.

I duck, dodge the blow, and follow up with one of my own. It lands solidly in his stomach, and he bends over reflexively. A nicely placed uppercut sends him reeling backward, then I rush him.

We stumble through the doorway and hit the hallway hard. I'm somehow on the bottom, and, although he's dazed, he's still fighting. At this point, the adrenaline of the fight has fully taken over, and I ignore the pain. All I can think is it's either beat or be beaten, and I really don't fancy the second option.

We're taking turns getting the upper hand, then someone grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me to my feet. I struggle, but whoever it is has my arms now and is pinning them behind me. The guy I've been fighting jumps up and wastes no time slamming a fist into my stomach, driving the air from my lungs.

I gasp for breath, but he just sneers and hits me again. It's only the arms holding me upright that keep me from slumping to the floor because I just can't _ breathe. _ The guy punches me in the face, and I feel something in the vicinity of my nose crack.

Great. Not that I wasn't already going to have some fantastic bruises, but now that's going to include two black eyes. I wonder if I can get away with sporting the raccoon look.

And then something in my side gives in a flash of white-hot lightning, and I can't hold back the yell of pain that feels like it's being ripped out of my throat.

There's blood running down my chin from my nose, and it drips into my mouth and fills it with the taste of copper. Plus—and more concerningly—I'm having trouble seeing straight, and then the guy behind me wrenches my arms even farther back until the pain in my shoulders makes me wonder if something's been dislocated.

I wonder why I'm even bothering with the whole "protect the dogs" thing. I really should just let them take the stupid mutts. Those Dobermans never liked me, and I can recount numerous times they've left me smelly… _ presents _ I always manage to step in. Not to mention, I've never seen them actually provide the security Higgy claims they exist to provide.

Higgy.

She loves the dogs, although if she loved them more after she realized how much they hate me, I can't say. And they're Robin's dogs anyway, and I can't let Robin down just as much as I can't let Higgy down. Maybe more because Robin's the one actually paying me to keep everything secure.

The dogs are just lucky they mean so much to two of the people I care about not disappointing

Regardless of how important it is to keep these guys away from Zeus and Apollo, I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out, much less if I can actually manage to take these guys down. I'm wracking my brain for a solution to escaping my current predicament when I hear a sound that normally sends fear coursing through me.

I instinctively flinch, but then I realize it's actually a good thing. Whether the dogs go for me or not, it'll make the goons leave me alone. Plus, if I get eaten, it will just put me out of my misery, and I'm pretty sure I don't have the strength to argue with anything at the moment anyway.

A series of sharp barks rend the air as the Dobermans appear from the kitchen doorway. I vaguely wonder how they got inside and surprise myself when I realize I'm just glad to see them. Their teeth bared, they gallop forward, snarling.

Remember the security I said I'd never seen the Dobermans provide? Well, you can scratch that.

I've never been so grateful for their jaws as I am the moment I see Zeus—or is it Apollo?—leap off the ground and clamp those teeth around the arm of the guy using me as his personal punching bag.

And then the other dog is coming right at me, and I briefly wonder if he's going to take advantage of me being helpless at that moment to rip out my throat.

In a manifestation of all of my worst fears that will probably fuel my nightmares for months to come, the Doberman dodges around his compatriot and covers the few feet to me in two long bounds. I squeeze my eyes shut as the dog launches himself off the ground and right at me— 

—just before I fall to the ground in an ungainly, painful heap as the goon releases me with a howl of pain.

Well, at least I'm not getting eaten.

Dazed, I crack my eyes open to see the man on the ground with the dog on top of him. The goon is yelling, and his shouts mix with his buddy's and the snarls and yelps of both dogs as they go at their jobs with relish.

Maybe too much relish, if you ask me, but I'm not the one at their mercy so I don't particularly care.

I take a deep breath, trying to get my vision to stop dancing all over the place. Unfortunately, that only serves to set my side alight with fire and send waves of pain slamming into my head. There's still blood running from my nose, and I'm pretty sure there's at least one other cut somewhere on my face.

I wipe my arm across my mouth in an attempt to clear some of the flow, then frown in distaste as the back of my hand comes away smeared red. But no time to dwell on that right now. I need to find a phone to call for help before the dogs kill the intruders—though I'm honestly not sure how to make them stop. Do they know enough to just hold the men down and not actually devour them?

I wonder if I can float the 'it's not my fault the intruders died, officer; the dogs were just defending me' excuse and be believed.

Using the wall beside me as support, I get to my feet and stagger down the hallway. I don't know how long has passed since the dogs attacked, but I don't _ think _ it's been more than a few seconds. I could be wrong, though… I can't really think straight at the moment.

I stumble a few times but finally reach the kitchen and look around for a phone. Robin has a home phone, I know, kept in case of emergencies. All I have to do is find the handset.

I spot it across the kitchen and make it halfway before I hear a sudden—and definitely human—sound directly behind me.

Whirling around, I see a dark blur as someone lunges at me. We hit the island at a high rate of speed and go sliding across it. My opponent is on top of me, and I can feel and hear various items crashing to the floor as we go across the slick marble surface in a tangle of arms and legs. So much for my having neatly dumped all the fruit out of the bowl moments ago.

As we reach the other side and flip off to the ground, I can't help but yell in pain. It's a solid multi-foot drop, and my already injured side impacts with some of the debris lying on the floor as I hit the tiles. I don't have time to look at what it is. Thankfully the guy didn't land on top of me, but that doesn't matter because he's quickly rolling to his feet.

I realize in a flash this is the guy I left unconscious on the sofa, and I aim a fist at his abdomen, right where I heard the cracking noise earlier. My blow hits its target, and the guy cries out. I follow up with another, but then he has his hands around my throat, and I let out a choked gasp.

I throw a few punches before managing to land one on the side of his head that makes him let me go. As he shakes his head, dazed, I scramble to get out from underneath him. I'm desperate for air, but I know I need to call for help. Things are spinning wildly out of control, and I need reinforcements.

We're on the far side of the counter from the phone, and I push to my feet to rush for the device—only to feel a fist close around my ankle. I kick out as hard as I can and feel my foot connect with something soft, but I don't stop to look. The only thought running through my brain past the clouds of pain is that I need to call 911. I'm fading fast, and someone needs to get here to help because I'm going to be no good in about two minutes.

My shaking fingers close around the device, and I quickly punch the numbers on the keypad and move for the "call" button—

—and feel a searing pain in my right side.

I swallow hard and blink down, my eyes locking onto one of Robin's steak knives that usually resides in a wooden block near the sink. Except now it's in this other guy's hand.

And covered in blood.

My blood.

Everything's suddenly gone cold and eerily quiet. I seem to have lost track of what my limbs are doing.

And then my body demands air and gasps in a breath, which immediately sends shock waves of pain washing over me.

I can't hold back the guttural cry of pain in response to the invading object, and I'm suddenly too tired to even think about raising my hand. I know I have to do something, and I grit my teeth as I attempt to gather all of my quickly fading strength… but it doesn't work.

My knees give out. My head hits the tile, and the whole kitchen is spinning. I vaguely realize the intruder is getting away, but I just… _ can't _make myself get up to go after him.

Everything goes dark for a second—or is it longer?—and then I think I hear sounds from the direction of the doorway, but the island is blocking my view. I consider getting up, but bile rises in my throat as soon as I shift my head.

Is that… is that Higgy?

She's saying something I can't make out, and I frown. I need to tell her my version of events before she blames everything on me, but I just can't make myself move.

* * *

_(Higgins)_

It's been years since I've snuck back home this late at night. Memories of being a young teenager, coming back from a party long past my curfew and hoping my parents don't hear me, flood back as I turn to my snickering companions.

I put a finger to my lips and give them as much of a glare as I can muster, although I know it's not as stern as I mean for it to be. "Shhh," I whisper, barely holding back my own giggle. "He's going to hear you."

Rick smirks and reaches past me to open the back door of the SUV. "Nah, he won't. It's past midnight; I bet he's already sound asleep."

"He's been gone on a case for two days," T.C. adds. He grabs two of the bags from our cargo. "I checked in with him this evening, and he texted me on his way home. Said he was planning to sleep for the next week—and something about a pile of fish, but I'm not sure what that was all about."

I wrinkle my nose. "I do hope he didn't get into Mr. Masters' good sheets smelling like the catch of the day."

"Don't worry, Jules," Rick tells me reassuringly. "I think you've trained him better than that by this point."

Shaking my head, I turn to glance toward the guest house. There's no sign of movement inside, just the faint glow of a lamp through the open blinds. Good. Hopefully, the boys are right and Magnum's sleeping soundly. It'll give us enough time to set up for the surprise; the last thing we need is him catching a glimpse out of his window and wandering over to find out what we're all doing up and about at this time of the night.

"And you're sure he didn't make any plans for his birthday already?" I ask for the tenth time. It'd be just like Thomas Magnum to go and ruin a surprise without even trying. And then he'll flash that insufferable smirk at me and somehow worm his way out of my frustrations.

They both pause in thought, exchange a look, and then shake their heads as T.C. responds, "Not for the morning, anyway."

"Mhm," Rick nods along. "We got him to promise to meet us for lunch, but that's it. I feel like the concern is more going to be how we're going to manage to get him into Robin's house for breakfast."

I laugh at that. "Well, usually, but he's always up bright and early, regardless of what might've happened. And since I confiscated all of his eggs this morning while he was still out"— I grin as I think of my brilliant plan—"he's going to have to come beg breakfast off me." I chuckle again as I remember how little the man actually keeps in his kitchen anyway. "He even did us a favour by leaving an empty box of pancake mix in the pantry; I doubt he'll suspect a thing when he finds his supplies low."

"Ohh look at you being all sneaky." Rick winks at me.

I'm smug about it, I must admit.

By this time, we've loaded ourselves down with all of our shopping, and we head for the door into the house. I shoot one last look back over my shoulder before closing the garage and following the boys inside.

I'm already running through my mental list of what still needs to be done in preparation for the morning. We aren't doing anything big, just Rick and T.C. and myself—and Kumu, of course, plus the guest of honor. Magnum probably thinks I forgot his birthday or, more likely, that I don't care—which is just going to make this that much more fun of a surprise when we pull it off.

We'd gotten plenty of party supplies, balloons and streamers and such, as well as the ingredients for what was probably the largest spread I'd seen in years. Chocolate chip pancakes, fresh ground coffee, bacon—

I'm so distracted I run right into Rick's back. "What the—"

He just holds up a hand, and I blink. I can't see anything from behind the taller men, and I roll my eyes. Whatever it is, _ I _ am the majordomo of the estate. If something's happened, I need to know about it. I huff a sigh and step around the others to get a look at whatever's stopped them in their tracks. My money's on a burglary, which would make the most sense, even though Magnum is _ supposed _ to be the live-in security consultant. But, then again, he _ has _ been away for two days, and he _ is _ probably sleeping—

I interrupt myself with an involuntary gasp as I take in the scene in front of me. It's one thing to think "burglary" but quite another to see the mess the scoundrels left in their wake. The place has been ransacked. There's nothing left on the kitchen island, and the fruit that had been in the silver bowl on the counter is now scattered and smashed all over the floor. The bowl itself is missing, probably chalked up as some valuable piece in the sticky-fingered thieves' minds. The rest of the room is an absolute disaster, although the island in the middle of the room blocks my view of what else of a mess might lie on the far side of it.

There's a bark, then, from the hallway, and I immediately recognise the tone. "Oh, good lads!" I exclaim as I set my bags down on the counter just inside the door and rush toward the sound.

"Higgy! Wait!" T.C. is on my heels.

I think the boys sometimes forget I'm quite capable of taking care of myself. I don't slow but also don't call him out on it. I can hear his footsteps behind me as I round the corner, and I smile as I see Zeus and Apollo sitting quite proudly on top of two men.

The humans in question are masked, clothed all in black, and lying on the floor of my hallway—Mr. Masters' hallway. And probably bleeding all over it, I sigh. Hopefully, it hasn't been too long since they were apprehended and the stains will scrub out.

Judging from their postures, the men in question have given up. Probably decided not getting eaten was a better deal than attempting to escape and not be arrested. Smart.

The lads look our way as T.C. and I pull up to regard the situation. Zeus looks at me proudly, his tongue lolling out to the side as he pants. Apollo _ woof _s and tilts his head as he studies us. Their tails wag gently as they take in my pleased body language.

"Good boys," I croon softly. I reach for my mobile. "Stay," I tell the Dobermans with the accompanying hand signal, and they duck their heads in acknowledgment.

T.C. clears his throat. "Do, uh, you need me to do anything?"

"Thanks," I acknowledge, "but it looks like the lads have this covered already. I'll just call the police and have them come clean up this mess."

He chuckles. "I see why Thomas is always worried about those dogs now," he remarks jokingly.

I roll my eyes. "Oh please. If they really wanted to eat Magnum, he'd be dead already. He's just always willing to play keep-away, and they love that game, especially with him for some reason."

As I start to tap out the numbers on my phone screen, I don't get past the first '1' before Rick's voice cuts down the hallway.

_ "Hey! In here!" _

I know something's wrong the second I hear his tone. One glance at T.C. tells me we're on the same page. We don't say a thing, just spin on our heels and tear back toward the kitchen.

I don't see Rick when I get to the other room but immediately realise he must be on the other side of the island. Something in my gut feels funny. "What's going— _ Oh _," I break off with a choked gasp.

There's an absolutely gory _ mess _ on the floor in front of me. Blood splatters the cabinets near the sink and smears the floor all around, but that's not where my focus is right now.

I hear T.C. swear, but I don't turn. I'm not even focused on Rick, who I vaguely note is shirtless, nor on the pool of blood on the floor—but rather on the limp form under Rick's hands.

_ Magnum. _

He's paler than I've ever seen him before, and that's saying something with the injuries I've seen him sustain over the time I've known him. His nose is broken, there's blood crusted over half his face, and his right eye is heavily swollen. But all of that takes a backseat to where Rick's shirt—bright and starched only a minute earlier—is now a sopping red mess wadded against our friend's side.

Rick looks up at me, face as grim as I've ever seen it. "Higgy…"

I shake my head, slowly at first, then faster, and then I move forward and fall to my knees next to the men. I ignore the sticky liquid on my bare knees. "What…" I reach for Magnum but stop myself as I realise I'll do more harm than good. I can't keep my fingers from trailing through his hair, though, and I wince as I feel a gash near his temple.

There's a dark feeling forming in the pit of my stomach, but I don't make any effort to squash it. "Is he…"

"Alive," Rick finishes in the affirmative, his response clipped and thick with emotion. "But…" He sighs and looks between us. "It's bad."

His gaze tips downward, and it's then I notice one of the good steak knives lying between Magnum and Rick.

Behind me, T.C.'s already on the phone with emergency services, but I barely pay him any mind. I'm solely focused on Magnum. He hasn't moved, hasn't opened his eyes. I don't know what to do; I feel so helpless, and I don't like it one bit.

My gaze goes back to the shirt in Rick's hands that's absolutely soaked now, the blood starting to drip from the light linen fabric onto the tiles. I straighten up and open a drawer to my left. I ignore the streak of red I add to the outside of the cabinets as I pull out a wad of dishtowels to hand to Rick. He gives me a tight smile of thanks and accepts them, and my eyes focus on the blood covering his hands.

The sight of blood has never made me sick before, but this is different. This is Magnum's blood, and there's too much of it literally everywhere except for _ inside _his body where it belongs. I bite my lip as I stand there and watch Rick press the fresh cloths to Magnum's side. The white fabric quickly becomes tainted red, and I clench my fists.

My vision is quickly turning red as well, and I barely register T.C.'s announcement that help is on the way. Then I hear the dogs snarling in the hallway, and I turn toward the sound. These men broke into the estate, and, although I often have given him grief for it, Magnum did his job. He heard a noise or saw something suspicious and came check it out. Judging from the chaos all around me, he put up quite the fight, and now he's fighting for his life on the floor of my kitchen.

"Higgins." T.C. puts up a hand as I pass him, stopping me in my tracks.

I glare at him. "Let me go," I say in a low, even, cold tone.

He clearly understands my expression and shakes his head slowly. The weight doesn't leave my shoulder. "Deep breath," he instructs quietly. He doesn't say anything further, but he doesn't have to.

I know what he means, but I don't have to like it. "Those… This is their fault."

"I know."

"Guys!"

I turn with my stomach flying into my throat.

"You need to pull the car around," Rick tells us. If his expression was grimmer than I'd ever seen it, his voice is hoarser and thicker than I've ever heard it. "We can't wait any longer for the ambulance."

All other thoughts flee my mind, and I nod sharply and clear my throat. "Right." I move for where I set my purse when we walked inside—just a few minutes before? It seems like hours.

And then my knees nearly give out with relief as the sound of sirens fills the air. Even from down the drive, where I know they're pulling up to the gate, I can hear them. I waste no time letting them onto the grounds.

The next few moments are a blur. T.C. rushes to open the door and points the paramedics to the kitchen. Several uniformed officers follow behind them, and I remember to go call off the lads so the cops can arrest the now-thoroughly tamed criminals. Both dogs are none the worse for wear, and they sit, panting, pleased with themselves but watching me in concern.

I try to stay professional and recite to an officer with a notepad all the facts I can remember, but then the stretcher goes by. I trail off as I watch it rush out the door.

"Higgins?"

I blink and look up to see T.C. and Rick standing at the open door.

"Come on. We're following them to the hospital," T.C. tells me, gesturing.

The officer looks between us, then flips his notebook closed and nods at me. "We can pick this up again later," he offers.

I smile my thanks and turn to join the boys—then pause. "Hang on." I suddenly realise Rick's still sans-shirt. "You can't go out like that."

Rick blinks down at himself. "Oh. Right."

Shaking his head, T.C. rolls his eyes and takes charge. "I'll go grab one from Thomas's closet. Higgy, you pull the car around. Rick, go wash your hands," he adds gently.

I nod at the order and head for the garage, barely allowing myself time to breathe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have only a very small amount of medical knowledge, so please forgive any inaccuracies. I did try my best and did some research, but I probably still missed the mark a bit. But hopefully you will all enjoy it despite anything I got wrong.
> 
> Also, did I mention there was angst? Because... yeah, there's angst.

_(Higgins)_

I hate hospitals.

I hate the act of having to sit, completely helpless, waiting for someone to come and tell news of whatever it is that's happened to the person I care about.

I hate the smell. It's chemical-laden to the point where you can't distinguish one specific scent from another, just a combined number of ingredients keeping the place sterile and clinical. The waiting room carries traces of sweat and more chemicals and the vague, stale indications of bad coffee and vending machine food.

I hate the plastic chairs you can't get comfortable in and seem to stick to when you try to get up to find a decent cup of coffee. Which, you know, you can't really because it's a hospital.

I still go and pour myself a cup, bad as it may be, though It's less of a need for caffeine and more of a need for distraction. I skip over the sugars and fake cream. If I'm going to drink this sludge, I'll just take it at its strongest and go for it black. I start to walk away, then turn back and fill two more cups, although I suddenly realise I don't remember how they take theirs.

It must be the exhaustion and the worry talking, because I _ do _ know how many creams and sugars to add. My brain just won't pull up the information as instructed, and I frown in frustration. My whole head is spinning, reeling with everything running through it at the moment, and my mind rebels against how I _ want _ to be able to function like normal right now.

Oh well. Black coffee is better than no coffee, right?

I snap plastic lids onto the three cups and make my way back to the corner of the waiting area where the boys are sitting, balancing the cups in my hands. Both look as absolutely bone-tired as I feel. T.C. slumps in his chair, arms crossed, while Rick sits forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped in his hands. They look up as I return, my footsteps squeaking mutedly on the linoleum floor.

I hold out the coffees in their direction. "Can't speak for the quality," I offer quietly with as much of a smile as I can muster—which, admittedly, is almost nothing. But it's at least an attempt at lightheartedness, and they seem to appreciate it.

"Thanks, Higgy." T.C. takes two of the cups from me and hands one to Rick. He tilts his back for a drink, makes a face, then cracks a forced grin. "I've had worse," he remarks.

I sink back into my chair on the other side of Rick from T.C. My first sip hits my tongue, and I wrinkle my nose and swallow as quickly as possible. However much I appreciate the warmth and the caffeine, I want it off my tastebuds.

We all fall silent then, each retreating to our own thoughts. I think of calling Kumu again, but then I shake my head at myself. I've already left several voicemails; she'll get them when she gets them. She's probably sound asleep.

I shift in my seat and stretch my legs out in front of me, flexing my calf muscles. When my gaze drifts downward, my breath catches in my throat and I nearly choke on my coffee. I haven't paid any attention to myself up until now, but now I see the stain covering my knees and reaching down my shins. My stomach clenches.

Next to me, Rick shifts and then an arm wraps around my shoulders. We're sitting in such close quarters he must have felt me stiffen at the sight of Magnum's blood still on my legs. I turn to see him watching me, his eyes warm with sympathy. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

I don't say anything either, just lean into the reassuring support, bite my lip, and try to force my emotions back under control. I'm supposed to be at the house, setting up for a surprise birthday party, not sitting in a waiting room at a hospital, wondering if Magnum is even going to make it through surgery.

The doctors had been nothing if not diplomatic as the stretcher was rushed down the hall of the hospital. _ "He's lost a lot of blood… possibility of internal injuries sustained from the fight… we can't promise anything other than an update as soon as there is one…" _

I clench my jaw. I can't even describe how angry I am at the men who broke into the estate. Those greedy… if they hadn't been looking to make a profit at someone else's expense, Magnum wouldn't be fighting for his life right now. I don't exactly care how they got onto the property in the first place, not right now, but I know I am going to press every single charge the law allows me to—and perhaps more, if I can figure out a way to do so. I make a mental note to call Robin's lawyer to ask how heavy we can make the book we throw at these criminals.

Images of Magnum, lying on the kitchen floor with the life literally draining out of him, rush unbidden to my mind, and I exhale a shuddering sigh. I feel Rick's arm tighten around me. He doesn't say anything, but what is there to say? None of us are okay, and we all know it.

I sniff and straighten my shoulders, standing with a nod of thanks to the man beside me, then rush for the ladies' room down the hall. Thankfully, no one else is inside, because I don't think I can face another person at the moment. The paper towel dispenser is manual, not automatic, and I grab the coarse brown edge sticking out of the plastic box mounted on the wall. I yank down on it a little more roughly than probably necessary, but I just keep at it until I have a wad in my fist. I stalk over to the sink, which _ is _ automatic, and wave my hand under the tap to start the water flowing.

Once the paper is dripping with the warm liquid, I turn to lean against the wall beside the counter and start scrubbing at my right leg. It takes a moment for the dried blood to start working its way off of my skin, and I scrub even harder. Ignoring the pressure I'm exerting on my skin, I also pay no mind when the paper starts to shred at my efforts. I focus solely on the task at hand, knowing I can't stop or else my whirling thoughts will take over, and I can't give into the tears burning at my eyes. Not now. I can't.

Distractedly, I notice the water running down my leg in red rivulets. I swipe at them, but I miss some, and they fall to the brown tile with tiny _ plop _sounds. I watch them, trying to compartmentalise them as having come from somewhere else, from someone else.

When the towels are all but shredded and I can't ignore them any longer, I turn and chuck the stained, wet handful into the bin, watching the plastic top flap on its hinges as the weight sends the paper towels into the bag. I bite my lip and move for the dispenser for a fresh handful, wet them again, and bend to attack my left leg.

I make it about ten seconds before my emotions finally break through the brick wall I've been trying to build. The tears start to flow, blurring my vision and obscuring my task. I blink hard but to no avail. The floodgates open, and I slide down the wall to sink to the floor.

Clutching the paper towels in my fist, I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. My tears are flowing, unstoppable, at this point, and I can barely breathe as the sobs wrack my body. The emotions I've been suppressing since we found Magnum all demand to be let out at once, my stomach aches as all of my feelings seem to force their way through it, and it feels as if my heart is being wrung out from inside my chest.

I hug my legs tighter and let the tears fall, knowing I can't stop them now, even though I want to. I lose track of time as they roll on, feeling the salty tears soaking my face and running down my neck. I wipe at my cheeks as the tears start to slow, and I sniffle as they start to trail off. I push heavily to my feet and throw the offending brown paper in the bin. I turn to look in the mirror, sniffling at my reflection. I look a fright, eyes red and puffy, mascara smeared down my cheeks.

I turn on the water and lean over the sink. Cupping my hands under the tap, I wash my face, using some of the soap that comes foaming out of another automatic dispenser. It's terrible for my skin, I know, but I don't particularly care.

Once I've sufficiently cleaned up, I prop my hands on the edge of the counter and lean forward to study myself again. My eyes are still swollen and bloodshot, and there's no way anyone will miss the fact that I've been crying. But I'm clean, at least, and I give myself a satisfied nod at the evaluation before turning my attention to scrubbing the rest of my legs. When I'm finally done, I wipe up the droplets from the floor and throw away a final handful of paper towels. 

I sigh heavily, give myself one last once-over in the mirror above the sink, and turn for the door. No one else has come in the entire time I've been inside, and I'm infinitely grateful for that. I don't know what I would've said if someone had found me crying on the floor, although I suspect anyone in this wing of the hospital would completely understand.

I swing the door open and step out, nearly running into a petite nurse. The redhead smiles kindly at me, and I can tell she knows from one glance what's been happening inside the room. She tilts her head sympathetically, then steps past me into the bathroom. I square my shoulders, sniff away the last threatening remnants of my breakdown, and return to the waiting room.

As I approach, I notice a new figure coming from the other direction. Everyone gathered in the chairs looks up anxiously at the sound of footsteps. The other small groups of people turn back to each other when they realise it's not a doctor bearing any news, but Rick and T.C. sit forward in their seats as I hurry to join them and the newcomer: a tired-looking Detective Katsumoto.

I sink back into my seat, and Rick raises an eyebrow at me. I can see T.C. studying me in concern as well, but I just shake my head in response. Thankfully, they don't push the issue.

Katsumoto takes a seat across from me and clears his throat. "Any news?" he asks.

"Not yet," T.C. replies with a shake of his head.

The detective nods slowly. "I was in the area so I wanted to check in." His expression as he quickly studies each of us tells me he's checking in on us as much as he is on Magnum.

"Oh?" I prod. Something tells me it's more than just coincidence he's here.

After a pause, he says gently, "The guys who broke into the estate were also brought here for treatment."

I swallow hard at that.

"You're here to question them," Rick observes. It's not an inquiry; it's a statement. "What did you find out?"

"Turns out this is a crew we've been chasing for a while," Katsumoto says. "They've been hitting homes all over Oahu. Before tonight, though, they only broke in when the homeowners were away, and they always wore masks so security cameras have been useless."

I nod slowly as the information settles. "They thought no one was at Robin's Nest tonight."

"They'd staked out the place for a couple of days before making their move," he continues affirmatively, "which turned out to be while Magnum was away on his case."

Pride fills T.C.'s voice. "Guess they didn't count on Thomas being home to give them a run for their money."

"No," Katsumoto shakes his head. He pauses. "Higgins, I know you have a lot going on here right now, but we need access to the security cameras at the estate," he says gently. "The two guys we have were more than willing to roll on their accomplices. It turns out there's a third member of their crew who was there tonight but escaped before you arrived."

We're all silent, processing the information.

"How do you know these guys are telling the truth?" Rick finally speaks up.

Katsumoto smiles grimly. "Trust me. I made sure they understood the severity of the situation. Neither of them wants to take the fall for attempted murder; they both pointed fingers at a third partner—separately, I might add, so the intel is pretty solid. That's why"—he looks at me—"I need to review anything the security cameras may have caught. We have a name from the two guys in custody and are already looking for him, but any further clues we might dig up will help us find him quicker."

Rick, T.C., and I sit quietly for a moment as the realisation that this isn't quite over sinks in. Somehow, it's harder to take than I would have thought.

Gathering myself, I nod quickly. "Right. Well, here; I have it access to it on my phone, actually," I explain. I set my coffee on the floor under my chair and then pull the device from my pocket. Tapping a series of commands into the phone, I hear T.C. clear his throat. 

"So, these guys were just after any valuables that may have been kept on the estate?" he asks Katsumoto. It's more like small talk to fill the silence while I'm working than anything, but the detective's answer makes my blood run cold.

"Not exactly," he starts slowly. "It turns out they used connections through local area vets to pinpoint their targets."

My gaze darts up to Katsumoto. "You're saying _ Zeus and Apollo _were the targets?" I almost don't believe it, but it makes sense, I suppose. Highly trained, purebred Dobermans are worth a pretty penny.

"They were," Katsumoto replies in the affirmative. "The crew confessed to having already stolen close to a dozen purebreds around the island before they tried for the Dobermans."

It feels like someone just punched me in the gut. I wonder if Magnum knew that's why the men had broken in. He's always going on and on about how the dogs hate him and how the feeling is mutual, but it seems he'd put it all on the line to save Zeus and Apollo. I remember how the lads had been sitting atop two of the would-be dognappers, and I'm not sure what this feeling is that's in my stomach as I realise the three of them must have ended up working together.

Then my attention is pulled back to the literal task at hand as my phone vibrates to announce it's completed its task. "You should have all the footage from last night and earlier this morning in your inbox now, Detective," I inform him, tucking my phone back into my pocket. "And I sent you the alarm system records as well in case you need to establish a timeline of which doors opened when."

Katsumoto gives me a small smile of thanks. "I appreciate that, Higgins." He stands and sighs. "We're going to find this guy, believe me."

"Thank you," T.C. replies, reaching out to shake the other man's hand.

The detective nods. "Let me know when you hear anything about Magnum?"

"Of course," I say graciously.

"Thanks."

As he heads back down the hall, none of the rest of us speak.

I sink back in my chair and let my chin drop. I sigh, feeling the rise and fall of my chest, and try to force myself to think good thoughts. Dwelling on what happened, on what _ could _ happen, will do nothing beneficial. I learned that with Richard—

No. All that matters right now is Magnum is in the best hands possible, and I just have to wait here until someone comes out, gives us the news he's out of surgery and recovering in a room, and we can go see him. Spending time worrying won't do anyone an ounce of good. It won't fix Magnum, won't make the doctor come out with a good report.

I wonder if it would have been preferable if something like this had unfolded with Richard rather than the way it did, where I just received the news my fiance had been killed, where I hadn't been given the opportunity to _ know _something was wrong, hadn't been given the choice of waiting in a hushed room full of other families in my same position—

Families… but that's what we are, aren't we? I smile in spite of myself as I glance over at Rick and T.C. Both are gazing into the distance, staring at nothing in particular and lost in their thoughts. Yes, that's what we are. They're my boys, and we're a family, little and dysfunctional though it may be.

Magnum is going to pull through. After all, we do have to celebrate his birthday. Something clenches in my stomach at that, but I focus on ideas of what we can do to pull off a lovely celebration in a hospital room without inciting the nurses' wrath.

With those thoughts, I tuck my feet up under me and settle back in my chair until I find a somewhat-comfortable position, leaning to the side to rest my head on Rick's shoulder. He shifts slightly but doesn't move to brush my weight away, and I let my worry-fueled exhaustion drag me into a restless sleep.

If I dream, I don't remember any of it, and, much too soon, I start awake as I feel the ground move under me. As soon as I open my eyes, I see it's not the ground that's moving but Rick. A doctor is standing nearby, and the moment I realise she's here for us is the moment I'm immediately wide awake.

She's an older woman with her dark hair pulled back in a bun, and she gives us a sympathetic smile—one of those practiced smiles that could mean anything at all. "He's out of surgery. It went well, all things considered. We were able to repair the damage done by the knife and, miraculously, his broken ribs didn't puncture a lung. He does have a broken nose and a significant amount of bruising throughout his body, but nothing that won't heal with time." She looks between us. "But he's not out of the woods yet. The stab wound was deep and the serrated edge of the blade did cause some trouble. We'll be watching it closely, but, like I said," she adds kindly, "the operation was successful, and we're cautiously optimistic about his chances."

"Thank you, Doctor," T.C. speaks for all of us.

She smiles again and nods. "He's being moved to a room in ICU so we can keep an eye on him for now," she informs us.

"Can we see him?" Rick asks. "We're family," he adds quickly.

I swallow, my throat feeling dry and scratchy, as I lean forward to catch her answer.

"You may," she replies, "but you do need to be aware he is in critical condition. We expect him to improve, but it may be slow going. He's still unconscious, and when he wakes up will be up to him. It is beneficial for him to hear familiar voices, even if he isn't responsive, but you'll need to remember not to excite him." She gives us a pointed look. "Quiet and rest is as important for Thomas right now as any medical treatment."

We all nod in acknowledgement. Rick is asking more questions, but I can't bring myself to focus. All I can think of is Magnum in a hospital bed, attached to tubes and wires, lying utterly helpless—which pulls my thoughts back to him lying on the floor of my kitchen, pale and bleeding—

"Juliet!"

I look up at the sound of my name. The boys are watching me in concern. Doctor Olina is nowhere to be seen.

"You wanna go see him?" Rick asks me gently.

I stand immediately. "Do you even have to ask?"

For as much as I would have thought I'd remember every detail of this insane night, I've already forgotten much of it by the time my watch tells me it's a proper time of the morning to actually be awake. In a way, I would be glad if the less traumatic portions were the only memories still with me. But, instead, the worst images are still there in vivid detail while the majority of our night spent waiting in the hospital is relegated to the blurry corners of my recall.

I know we made our way to the room in ICU, pointed in the right direction by a nurse with a sympathetic smile—they all had sympathetic smiles—and took turns sitting by our friend's side while the other two dozed off in stiff hospital chairs.

I remember putting my hand lightly over Magnum's where it lay on the mattress, absently stroking the backs of his fingers while avoiding the IV, telling him about finding the lads sitting atop two of the burglars—leaving out details of the man who was still at large—and describe how they'd been so proud of themselves when I'd found them. I tell him how cowed the men had been, chuckling as I remind him _ he _doesn't have to be afraid of the lads if he's not doing something wrong.

He has to wake up, I tell him, because it's his birthday. We can't possibly have a party without him. And what's Kumu going to say when her cake is wasted because no one is home to eat it?

The next thing I know, I feel a hand rub my shoulder, and I start awake. I blink, feeling self-conscious I allowed myself to drift off when I'm supposed to be keeping Magnum company.

Glancing up, I see T.C. looking down at me. He seems tired, the bags under his eyes puffy with lack of sleep, but he speaks quietly. "Hey, why don't you and Rick go grab some breakfast? I just woke up, so I'll take this next shift." It's a gentle suggestion, but I can hear the firm concern in his tone, hushed though it is.

I smile. "You don't have to spoil me, you know; I'm just as capable as either of you boys." I'm mindful to keep my voice low for the sleeping patient beside me.

"We know," T.C. replies. "Go on; Rick needs his coffee, but he refuses to go alone."

My gaze darts over to Rick, who rolls his eyes but doesn't retort. Whether that's because he can't or because he doesn't want to get into an argument in the middle of the ICU, I'm not sure. I manage a smile and nod. "Okay, then. There's a shop down the road; we'll be back in no time."

Honestly, I feel like I've been awake for days, and I'm aching for a nice hot shower, but no way am I leaving for very long. A coffee run won't take more than half an hour; a trip back to Robin's Nest to freshen up will take at least twice that, and I'm not risking taking any more time away from the hospital than I have to.

I know my being here won't change anything, but I'll never forgive myself if I'm away and something happens. As much as I try to tell myself to think good thoughts and focus only on the way things can improve, I'm also a realist. I know patients who _ aren't _ in the ICU sometimes take drastic turns for the worse. Someone in Magnum's condition has an even greater chance—

But no, I have to stop thinking like that. It's doing nothing but make me more worried and less willing to do as T.C. has gently prodded me.

I sigh and swallow, noting with displeasure how dry and stale my mouth feels. "Okay," I say again, still careful to keep my voice quiet and even. "See you soon."

* * *

_(Magnum)_

The world is a fuzzy pool of darkness and silence. Nothing's in focus and everything seems to be floating just out of my reach.

I try to find something to focus on, _ something _to grab to pull myself back into reality. I can't see anything, which I realize is because my eyes are closed, but then I can't find the strength to pry them open, so I don't.

A voice drifts into the realm of my senses then, and I can't quite place it. I start to frown in thought and then stop. Everything is being slow to respond, and the entire world feels so out of focus. The voice is still there, though, familiar and low and comforting and droning on quietly. I can't make out the exact words. I don't really care; something about it makes me feel safe and at home—

Home.

Robin's Nest.

Flashes of the fight come flooding back to my mind. It's nothing exact, more like a blur of fists and feet and gunshots. I wince as the barrage of memories floods my mind and set my head pounding. From somewhere off to the side, a machine starts beeping indignantly.

I draw in a quick breath, which the machine really doesn't like, and then I feel a warm hand close around mine reassuringly.

Higgins?

"Hey," the voice comes in more clearly now. The words are still a little fuzzy, but I can at least make them out now. "Thomas? Open your eyes, buddy. Come on. Can you do that for me?"

It's not Higgy… T.C.? Yeah, it's T.C.—or, at least, I think it is.

As much as I just want to drift back off to sleep, I try to do as I'm told. I can't pull my thoughts together enough to verbally respond; I'm expending all my energy obeying the request. It takes all of my strength and then some, but I finally manage to crack my left eye open. My right is slower to do as it's been told, and it only makes it about halfway before I give up.

The room is hazy, and I blink a few times at the shadow by my side. My gaze still isn't completely focused, but I can at least make out T.C. now. He's looking down at me, and his face breaks into a relieved smile as he meets my gaze.

"Boy, you about gave us all a heart attack, you know." He lets out a breath. "I just called the nurse, so someone should be here soon to check on you. It's been quite a night," he adds.

I frown. "'Night'?" I start to shift on my pillows, then immediately stop and regret the motion when a muted shadow of pain darkens my vision. Okay, don't move. Got it. "...time?"

T.C. knows what I mean, thankfully. "Just after eight in the morning." He glances away for a minute—maybe toward the door? "Honestly, bro, we weren't sure you'd wake up at all today, but I'm glad you did," he adds. "It's really great to see you."

I glance past him, frowning ever so slightly when I realize he must be alone in the room.

"Higgins and Rick went get something to eat," T.C. supplies, catching onto my thoughts. "They'll be back in a minute. How do you feel?"

"Ev… rythin' hurts…" Understatement of the century, but it's all I can manage to croak out. I swallow, noticing how much it hurts and realizing the doctors probably stuck a tube down there at some point. 

T.C. snorts. "I would imagine so. You've been through a lot, T.M. We were worried for a while there you weren't gonna come back to us."

The room is reeling from whatever drugs they have me on, and my focus is going in and out. It's making me feel like puking, which I _ really _ don't want to do right now, so I close my eyes again. The grogginess is starting to slowly pull me back under, and, as much as I want to keep my eyes open and stay with my friend, I just don't have the strength to fight it much longer.

"Thomas?" T.C. pats my hand.

I groan and twitch my fingers. "Tired," I offer in explanation.

"Understandable," he responds, and I can imagine he's shaking his head as he says it. "That was some fight, huh?"

Fight…

Robin's Nest…

All the stuff we broke…

Higgins is going to be so upset.

"Higgy." The word, hoarse as it is, tumbles from my mouth, and I force my eyes to squint open. I look at T.C.'s fading form. "I… th' house…"

"We know," he says.

That figures. But… if they know…

I have to make sure T.C. knows, make sure he tells Higgy. "…fault…" I can't get any more words out, and I want to cry from frustration at not being able to communicate if not for what I know it'll do to my senses, even dulled as they are by the drugs.

"What?" T.C.'s hand tightens around my fingers, just slightly but enough I still feel it.

I take a deep breath and feel pain twinge in my side, but it's muted so I push on. "Not my… my fault…" I avoid moving my head but shift my gaze to look over at him again, trying to convey the message before my body totally gives into the pain and the allure of the drugs. "Jus' hungry… wanted food. Tell Higgy… 'm s… sorry…"

The effort I'm expending trying to talk, to find and form words, is taking its toll on me. I can't remember the last time I felt this exhausted, and I literally cannot keep myself awake any longer.

I think I hear noises from near the door, and I swear I hear Higgins, but my eyes have already closed. Everything around me is getting further and further away as I drift down into the welcoming darkness.

* * *

_(Rick)_

As much as it pains us both to leave the hospital, even for just a few minutes, I realize it's what we need. Some fresh air, a chance to clear our heads. I'll have to send T.C. out on an errand of his own later, I decide. It will do all of us some good to refocus.

We've all been so cramped up in hospital, where time seems to enter one of those weird zones where you can't really keep track of it accurately. It's only been about seven hours since we first arrived, but it feels closer to seventeen.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath of morning air through the Rover's open window as we zip back down the road toward the shopping center. I'm glad Jules insisted on driving, because it gives me a chance to really clear my head. It's already warming up, and there's the scent of some sort of flower on the breeze. Definitely better than the stale medicinal and chemical smell of the hospital.

I feel the car turning and open my eyes to see we're pulling back into the visitors' lot. I reach to gather the paper bag of pastries as Higgy parks and cuts the ignition. She grabs T.C.'s coffee, and we rush inside as quickly as we can without flat-out running.

I find myself wondering if Thomas's condition has changed at all and hoping it's for the better if it has. He has to pull through… He has to. After all we went through in Afghanistan, he just _ has _ to make it. Thomas can't have come all this way only to be taken down by burglars in his own home.

Well, Robin's home, but close enough.

A knot is growing in my stomach as we step onto the elevator. I press the button for the correct floor, swallowing around the lump in my throat. As the car moves upward, I try my best to squash the flicker of fear that something terrible has happened since we left to make our breakfast run. Then I shake my head. No, T.C. would have called or texted. It's fine. Thomas is fine.

The elevator dings, signaling we've arrived, and the two of us practically tumble out into the hallway. We head straight for where we'd left our friends, neither of us speaking but not needing to say a word. There's not much to say even if we did talk, and neither of us seems to want to break the breathless silence hovering around us.

As we near Thomas's room, I hear voices. At first, I think it's just T.C. talking quietly, but then we step through the door and realize that's not all it is.

Thomas is awake.

My stomach does cartwheels, and I nearly drop my coffee. I take a step forward, then freeze in my tracks. Thomas's speech is slurred, his eyelids fluttering, but it's not his condition that has me suddenly unable to move. It's the mumbled words I can just make out.

"Not my… my fault…"

I glance over at Jules next to me. Her face has gone even paler, and she's watching the scene unfold with widening eyes.

As for me, the feeling in my gut can't even be named. Thomas nearly died fighting off dognappers at Robin's house, yet all he cares about is that we don't blame him for it. It might just be the drugs talking, but I can't help thinking there's more to it than just that.

"Jus' hungry… wanted food…"

And then his next words come like a sucker punch. "Tell Higgy… 'm s… sorry…" And then his eyes close as his head drops to the side.

It takes me a solid few seconds to realize the machines next to Thomas's bed show no signs of distress. I force myself to take a breath, shuddering though it is; the readout on the monitors indicates he's just fallen back asleep. There's no need to—

Someone bumps me from behind, breaking into my thoughts. I see the back of a doctor's coat as Thomas's physician rushes past us to get to his bedside. Beside me, I hear Higgy draw a harsh breath of her own, but it's like I'm in a daze, like everything that's happening is occurring somewhere far away and I'm just observing. Like when we were running missions and I was watching everything go down through the scope of my rifle. I'm there but at a distance.

More medical personnel rush in now, pushing T.C. aside, and the three of us find ourselves outside the room, looking in on the sudden beehive of activity. It's hard to take, knowing none of us can do a thing and just having to watch helplessly.

I know enough to be able to mostly translate what's going on around Thomas's bedside now. I swallow again as I watch another nurse rush into the room with a syringe of something that gets injected into the IV trailing into the patient's right hand.

I glance over and see Higgy rubbing her arms as she watches the movement of the staff. Something is playing out on her face, and I tilt my head slightly. I recognize those emotions, but I hesitate to say anything. We're all dealing with our own feelings right now… but this is different. This is something beyond knowing we could lose our friend if the scales tip the wrong way.

Shaking my head, I look over to T.C. and then back to where Thomas is lying in the bed with medical personnel working over him. Even from where I'm standing outside the room, looking in through the glass wall, Thomas is pale. Past the tan tone of his skin, he's… I don't want to use the descriptor, but he's deathly pale. I can see it in the sheen on his forehead, in the tint of his lips, in the way the stubble around his mouth stands in stark contrast to the rest of his face.

For the umpteenth time, I swallow hard. I feel like I'm going to throw up, and it's not from anything medical-related. Trust me, after everything I've seen in my life, this hospital is nothing. But watching Thomas lying so still on that bed brings back other memories… memories of how still he was lying on Robin's floor, of the blood I just couldn't stop, staining the tiles and coating my hands… Thomas's blood—which had brought back its own set of memories of the other times I'd seen my friend like that, of the times I'd thought were the last I'd see him, of the times I'd desperately hoped would be the last I'd see him in such a bad way. After the POW camp… 

I shake my head, banishing those memories back to the corner of my mind where they've lived all these years. I can't afford to let them come back to life right now. Right now, I need to be _ here _ and present in the moment, be alert and available the minute anything changes. Otherwise, I won't be any good to anybody.

And then Jules snatches in a deep breath, her shoulders trembling, and she turns away from the scene in Thomas's room. With a mumbled, "Excuse me," she brushes past T.C. and me and rushes down the hallway.

I look over at T.C. His expression matches what I'm sure is my own, and he raises an eyebrow in a silent question. She's definitely not okay, but neither of us want to invade her personal space by running after her. In a crisis like this, we all need our privacy. I watch her back as she retreats, noting as she takes a turn toward the chapel.

One of the nurses passes us to head back down the hall. I turn just in time to see Doctor Olina coming out of Thomas's room.

She pauses and gives us a kind smile. "Nothing to be too concerned about," she says, only slightly allaying my worries. "He just needs his rest right now; it seems his body wasn't quite ready to process all of the outside stimuli that came with being awake. We've given him some more painkillers and something to help him sleep." She pauses and looks between us.

I bite my lip and feel T.C. shift beside me.

"I'm going to have to ask you both to take a break from his bedside for the time being." She says it kindly, but the words still sting. "The best thing for Mr. Magnum is for him to get some uninterrupted rest, and… well, to phrase it completely non-medically, I think there's a part of him that wants to join the rest of you, and hearing your voices coaxed him awake. Ordinarily, that would be good, but not when his body isn't ready to be fully alert quite yet. He still has some healing to do, and he needs rest and quiet for that to happen."

She gives us a sympathetic look as she continues. "Trust me; you could benefit from some rest as well. Why don't you go home, take a shower, and try to relax at least a little? I promise we'll call you the moment anything changes." With a final, small smile, she turns and heads back toward the nurses' station.

For a moment, we stand in the hallway where she left us, then wordlessly look back toward Thomas. I take a deep breath. The doctor's right; we probably need to clear our heads for a bit—and more than just a quick trip for coffee.

Speaking of which, I suddenly remember the paper bag I set down on the table just outside of the hospital room when all of the chaos started. I glance over and notice the coffee cups sitting next to it—most likely cold by now, though I'm pretty sure none of us care.


	3. Chapter 3

_ (Katsumoto) _

The clock in the bottom corner of my screen ticks away the passing minutes, and every glance at it reminds me just how significantly our chances of catching the fugitive shrink with every minute he's free to roam the island.

As I'd told Higgins, Rick, and T.C., the two men in custody had done their fair share of talking. They were more than happy to tell me everything I wanted to know in exchange for it going on record that they had nothing to do with the stabbing of the estate's security personnel. In separate conversations, each of the two crew members had told me the man I'm after is a Peter Takemura.

It's at least something to go on.

The looks on the faces of the trio in the waiting room had further cemented my determination to track down the man responsible for putting Thomas Magnum in the hospital. I couldn't promise I _ would _find him, but I could promise to do my best. As much as Magnum is maybe the biggest pain I've worked with in years and is always getting in the way of HPD cases—although he's actually a decent detective in his own right, not that I'll ever tell him that—he's also currently the innocent victim of a violent crime. You can bet I will be doing everything I can to catch Takemura.

I sigh and look back at the monitor. The time displayed on my screen reminds me of just how long it's already been since this whole incident started. It took time to get to the house, then to the hospital, then to conduct interviews and check up on Magnum. It's now the wee hours of the morning—and getting later by the minute—and I've just finally made it back to the station.

Pulling up my email, I open the files from Higgins. Thankfully, Robin Masters invested in state-of-the-art security cameras, and the footage is as good as any I could have hoped to get. I dig into the videos as well as all of the other files Higgins provided and soon pinpoint just when and where the crew made it onto the grounds. To Magnum's credit, it's not actually by any fault of his as security consultant. They had somehow obtained the gate code of one of the gardening staff—I make a note to tell Higgins about it later so she can run a thorough audit on everyone with access to the estate.

The videos from inside the house are jarring to watch, but I click through them anyway. It's not the most tasteful job; as much of a pain as Magnum is, I'm not exactly eager to watch someone try to kill him.

Magnum actually holds his own surprisingly well. I catch myself clenching my fist as the fight in the kitchen plays out, even though I know exactly what's going to happen. And then the guy grabs a steak knife from the block on the counter, and it glints in and out just before Magnum slumps to the ground. His assailant stands still for a moment, as if processing what just happened. Takemura starts to go one way and then another, then drops the knife and puts his hands to his head, surveying the scene in front of him. A split second later, he makes a decision, turns, and sprints off-camera.

I watch the recording for a little longer, and, just as I reach for the keyboard to jump to the next camera's footage, I see Higgins, Rick, and T.C. arrive in the kitchen from the garage. Shaking my head, I click to the next video file, this one of outside the house, and fast-forward to the same time stamp as when the masked man fled the kitchen. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the shadowy figure fleeing from inside the house skids to a stop near a vehicle in the driveway, glances around, then jumps in the car and speeds off.

There isn't enough light to make out more than just that it's a dark-colored sedan, and there are no plates visible—although my money's on the car not having a plate at all. If these guys are following the same pattern as their other break-ins, they made sure to clear off all identifying marks before using it. Other than a color, make, and model—which they always switch up—there's never been any way to use the car to prove who had taken the missing animals. And even though we now know who the guys are—a motley gang of local troublemakers who have graduated from petty theft and occasional gas station robberies to breaking and entering, petnapping, and, now, attempted murder—we still can't identify the car, meaning we can't track it to find our fugitive.

The footage from outside tells me the direction Takemura fled when leaving the estate, so I dig into every avenue available for tracking him down. Unfortunately, there's not much to go on, and, after a solid hour of dead ends and circular tracks, I finally sigh and push my chair back from the desk. My eyes are starting to cross, and I need to clear my head.

I grab my mug and cross to the coffeepot for a fillup. I need a break—and not just from the computer. I need a break in the case. Often, these kind of investigations can take time—after all, we've been trying to find this crew for weeks—but we don't _ have _ time anymore. With Takemura on the run and probably thinking he's killed someone, it's only a matter of time before he figures out a way off the island, and we'll lose him for good.

Placing my palms on the table, I lean forward, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. There's got to be something I'm missing, something simple I just haven't been able to figure out yet. But what?

With one last deep breath, I refill my cup and head back for my desk, determined to find what I've been missing. It's been a long night already—and I wasn't even supposed to be on duty for the overnight shift. I was staying late to wrap up another case, and it was right around midnight as I finished logging evidence. When the call first came in over the radio, I was going to ignore it, but then I heard who the victim was and knew I couldn't. For all of our differences, Magnum is something of a friend, and he's helped me out more than once—including on a very personal case. I owe it to him to solve this one.

I check my watch. It's nearly seven already. I massage the bridge of my nose and pause to think. I've interviewed the guys in the hospital. I've talked to Higgins, T.C., and Rick. I can't talk to Magnum because he's not awake yet—although I'm not sure he can tell me much more than I already know.

We know Takemura's name, but knowing who he is and _ finding _him are two very different things. I've already put alerts out on the man's cell phone, credit cards, and bank account, plus informed the necessary parties needed to get his photo on the news. The island will be waking up to news reports and social media posts about the case. Hopefully, some public awareness will get us the clues we need.

I glance at my notebook, lying on my desk where I'd dropped it when I'd first gotten back from the hospital, and a thought springs to mind. The dognappers have connections with some of the local veterinarian offices, that's how they got their targets in the first place. So maybe a chat with some of their contacts will give me something more to go on. There's one office in particular both men had mentioned several times, claiming one of the admin staff, a Kim Olani, had helped them locate many of their targets. It's just turning seven o'clock now, and a quick online search reveals the office opens early—probably for clients' convenience before work. I check traffic levels and nod in satisfaction, then head for the parking lot. I don't want to call ahead and risk spooking the woman in question, so I just have to hope she's at work today. Just in case, I run her home address to have on hand.

I make it to my destination in record time, and the bell over the door jingles as I walk inside. There's one man sitting in the waiting area and a woman standing at the counter, signing forms. I can hear dogs barking from somewhere in the back.

"Hello, may I help you?" The petite woman behind the desk smiles at me in greeting. Her name tag reads, 'Anna.'

I flash my badge. "Yes, I need to speak to one of your employees, a Kim Olani."

Her eyes widen as she reaches for the phone on her desk. "Of course. Um, is she expecting you?"

"No," I shake my head. "Just tell her she has a visitor." If Olani is up to no good, connected with Takemura's crew as she is, the last thing I want is her getting wind the police are after her and fleeing out a back door.

"Oh, okay." Anna watches me uncertainly as she slowly reaches for the phone. She's probably wondering what I need with her coworker, and I don't blame her.

Before she can lift the phone to her ear, however, the door to the back offices swings open and a woman in dark scrubs walks through. I recognize her immediately as the person of interest whose information I just ran back at the station.

She sees me, and her eyes drop down to the badge on my belt and widen. Turning, she bolts back through the open doorway.

She's fast, but I'm faster, and I leap forward and close the distance with a few long strides. When I cut her off, she pulls up short in front of me, and the look on her face says she knows she's been beaten.

The information I get from Kim Olani leads me to a worn-looking house in an older neighborhood. It's definitely seen better days, and some of the buildings look like they've been kept up a little better than others.

I glance out my window as I slow to a stop down the block from my target. If Takemura is there, I don't want to give him a heads-up that I'm coming. I can see a marked unit turning onto the street behind me, and I watch to make sure they park well away from the house in question. Thankfully, they do, and I quickly exit my vehicle and jog over to join them.

The driver, an older officer named Pukui who I've worked with before, nods at me in greeting as he shuts his door behind him. His partner exits her side of the car and comes around to join us. She's a younger cop, probably only a few years on the job. Collins, I note her nametag.

"Okay, here's what we've got," I say. "I have intel that a suspect I'm after for an attempted murder might be holed up here. It's his girlfriend's house, but he apparently has been staying with her for the last few weeks." I glance between Pukui and Collins. "I don't believe the girlfriend to be a threat, but Takemura definitely is. It's also possible she'll be trying to protect him, plus we don't know who else could be inside, so we need to be ready for anything."

"Got it," Pukui nods. "Where do you want us?"

"It looks like there's one side door and one back, so I want you both covering an exit," I order. "I'll knock and, hopefully, have a civil conversation with whoever answers. But be prepared. If Takemura is there and tries to flee, you are to apprehend him. He's already put a man in the hospital today, so be careful."

They both nod, and we set off down the street. When we reach the house, the two officers split off and head around to the side and back. I step up onto the porch and rap on the door.

A few beats pass. No answer.

I knock again.

This time, a woman's voice comes from behind the door. "Who is it?"

"This is Detective Gordon Katsumoto, HPD. I'm looking for a Nalani Kapule."

There is a sudden banging from behind the door, and I jump back, hand on the grip of my pistol. But then I hear the sound of a security chain being unhooked, and the door creaks open.

A woman in her early thirties blinks out at me. She's clearly just woken up, wearing a baggy t-shirt and a pair of shorts, and she pushes her hair out of her face. "That's me. What you want?"

"Do you know a Peter Takemura?" I ask. I know the answer to the question, but I want to let her answer it.

She regards me for a moment. "Maybe."

"Maybe you do know him?" I prod. I'm looking past her inside the house, but all I see is a dimly lit living space with a couple of chairs and a television. "Ma'am, I have reason to believe he's been residing here for the past month."

"Oh," she says slowly, then nods. "Yeah, I know him. So?"

Behind her, I think I see something move, but I can't be sure what it is. "Ma'am, are you aware there is a warrant out for Mr. Takemura's arrest?" I press, turning back to Kapule.

Her eyes widen. "A what now? He ain't done nothin' to nobody; he was here all night!"

And then there's a flash of movement behind her, this time I know it, and I see a dark figure bolting across the living room and toward the back of the house. I turn and rush around the house. "Collins!" I yell. "Pukui! He's coming your way!"

From around the corner, I hear a door slam open and a man yells, then the sounds of a scuffle fill the air. I see Collins running around the corner, weapon drawn, and I pull my own as I follow closely behind.

I survey the situation in a fraction of a second when we get to the back door. Pukui's on the ground, wrestling with a man much larger than he is; a glimpse of the assailant's face tells me it's not Takemura. Whoever he is, though, he's got a desperate look on his face, one I've seen on a thousand other perps before him. He knows he's trapped, but he won't give in easily.

And then another figure bursts through the open door and takes off down the street.

Collins and I look at each other, then she nods. "I got him!" she yells, bolting down the street after the fugitive.

I turn back at where the first man and Pukui are still rolling around; the assailant is much larger than either the officer or myself, and I immediately holster my weapon and throw myself into the fray.

I catch my target around the waist and plow forward, letting my force drive him to the ground. He grunts as he lands, and he immediately tries to throw his weight over to continue fighting me.

The guy lands a solid kick in my middle, in the perfect spot to drive the air from my lungs in one blow. The momentum throws me backward, and I stumble a few steps. I shake my head, try to draw in a breath, but my vision is gray and speckled at the lack of oxygen. I feel more than see the man bodyslam me, taking me to the pavement with him on top of me.

I feel him land a meaty fist in my side, but the pain that shoots up my spine is joined by the impact of a blow to the side of my face. Blindly, I lash for where I think his head is, and I feel it connect, but I'm not sure with what. I hear a grunt, which tells me I at least hit my mark. Then something smashes into my side again, and I feel a flash of pain that tells me he's hit a rib.

The adrenaline helps clear my vision, at least partially. It's still cloudy, but I can make out the dark form towering over me, see his fist coming for my face. I gather all my strength to grab his arm as it comes down, then throw myself upward to get control of the fight. This guy could be one of our only current leads to Takemura, and I'm not going to lose him.

It's only been a few seconds for all of this to transpire, and I suddenly see Pukui tackle the guy, taking him to the ground and off of me. I know I can't stop to nurse my wounds; the officer is going to need my help based on how the fight has gone so far. So I scramble to my feet, wincing at the pain in my side, and leap forward to assist.

Pukui's managed to land on top of the guy, who's struggling and bucking to regain control of the fight. I jump in next to my colleague, grabbing the guy's left arm and using all my weight to pin him to the ground, facedown.

The guy's struggling with us still, screaming and cursing.

"HPD! You're under arrest!" I yell. "Stop moving!"

He doesn't listen, still fighting, and I risk removing a hand to retrieve my handcuffs. Between Pukui and myself, we finally manage to get them on. Once the guy is cuffed, I hear Pukui calling it in on his radio, but the prisoner under me is still throwing his weight around, and I can't let up in case he takes advantage of the situation.

As Pukui and I haul the man to his feet, he yanks as if to break away, and we tighten our grip around his arms. I can see Collins coming back toward us, the much smaller guy she chased down the block in cuffs in front of her.

We load the big guy into the back of the cruiser and Collins' collar into the back of my unit, then we head for the station, sirens blaring. Time is of the essence, and I need to get these guys into interrogation as soon as possible.

Within the hour, I'm stepping into one of the rooms and sitting down across a table from the man I fought that morning. I try to smother my wince as I sit; a doctor had wrapped it for me, but I can still feel it with every move.

"Maleko Kahele," I say, regarding the prisoner as I set a file on the table.

He glowers at me. His hands are in front of him, chained to a bar in the metal table, and he clenches his fists.

"You have quite the record," I observe, flipping open his file. "Assault, robbery, criminal destruction of property." I shake my head. "And several outstanding warrants. Looks like it's not your lucky day."

Kahele stays silent, continuing to glare at me.

I put my elbows on the table and lean forward. "I'm looking for one of your associates. His name is Peter Takemura. Tell me where he is, and maybe I can let the judge know you cooperated."

He doesn't reply.

"Takemura is wanted for attempted murder," I say, letting my voice drop into a low, threatening tone. "The sooner you tell me where he is, the easier this goes for you."

At that, Kahele smirked. "Oh, you mean that haole he tangled with at that estate last night."

I'm still leaning on my elbows, ignoring the pain it sends through my side. "Sounds like you have some information on the crime," I say.

"Yeah, you could say that," he returns. He raises an eyebrow and leans across the table. "But what's it got to do with me?"

I hold his gaze. "You're going to jail for a whole list of things. Maybe if you tell me where Takemura is, I can make some of it go away."

"Ha, right," he snorts. "Because you can just do that."

"That 'haole' Takemura attacked has friends in the HPD," I inform Kahele. "And we want Takemura behind bars for what he did. If you help us, we help you. I can let the judge know you were a key part of the arrest if you help us apprehend Takemura, which might help with some of your charges. But you need to tell me _ now _ because my offer expires the minute I walk out of here."

We stare at each other for a moment longer, and Kahele just watches me. I don't give him any indication of what I'm thinking, and he doesn't say a thing. I let a solid minute tick by, then I stand and snap the file closed.

"Fine," I say as I pick it up. "An officer will be in to escort you to your cell."

I stalk toward the door, hoping my ploy worked. Sure enough, just before I reach for the doorknob, Kahele's voice comes from behind me.

"Wait."

Turning, I raise an eyebrow.

"I think I can help you," he tells me.

Now that's more like it.

* * *

_ (T.C.) _

I dial Katsumoto as Rick and I head toward the waiting area at the end of the hall. Doctor Olina had been serious about kicking us out and continued to shoo us away from loitering outside of Thomas's room.

"Go get some sleep or something to eat," we'd been instructed. "You can come back in a few hours, but your friend needs his rest."

I know there's no way I can sleep, not now, and I _ know _there's no way I can work either. In fact, as soon as it was a decent hour of the morning, I'd texted Shammy to reassign tours at the office. He'd texted back an apologetic offer for if we need him to do anything else, and I appreciate it big time.

But I certainly am not ready to just sit around waiting to hear something, and so I call the detective to see how the case is going. Who knows, maybe he's got a lead and we can help with catching the guy who'd stabbed Thomas. Because you know there's no way I'm missing out on collaring that scumbag.

Rick isn't trying to hide the fact that he's leaning in to hear the conversation, and I take pity on his shorter frame and put my phone on speaker just as the call connects.

_ "Katsumoto." _

"Hey, man; it's T.C. and Rick," I reply. "How's it going?" I don't mean it as a casual greeting, and he doesn't take it as such.

_ "Actually, I have a lead." _

Rick and I exchange cautiously hopeful glances.

_ "I tracked down some people who could help me figure out where Takemura might be headed. Got some info he's connected to a local gang who run a couple of less-than-reputable car shops in the area. And it turns out he goes by the name Swordfish with some of his seedier connections. Going to try to run it through our databases, see if anything pops, and pay a visit to those businesses this morning. With any luck, he'll be at one of them—or someone there can tell me where he is." _

I shoot Rick a look. It's no secret my buddy knows just about everyone on the island, and I'm hoping he's familiar with the name through some of his contacts.

Sure enough, Rick's tired face lights up, and he leans in toward the phone. "Hey, Katsumoto, I think I might be able to help you out with that."

_ "Oh?" _

"Yeah." Rick is nodding now. "I've never met the guy, but I've heard the name. I've, uh, never met him, but I know the crew he runs with. They operate out of a car repair shop on the north side of the island, uh… Cooper's Body Works."

_ "Yeah, that's one of the ones on my list," _ Katsumoto replies. I can hear the tiredness in his voice, but now it's tinged with a little more optimism than just a few moments ago. _ "You want to come along? I'm heading there now." _

"Definitely. We'll meet you there," I say without hesitation. "Thanks."

Rick's gone in search of Higgy before I finish my sentence, and then we're in the Rover and on our way to meet up with Katsumoto within five minutes.

Higgy hadn't protested when I'd offered to drive. It's no Ferrari, but I push the SUV over the speed limit as we rush through town. I'm not concerned about following any posted signs, and I even run a red light at one point after I've made sure no one's coming. The only thing I can think about is catching the no-good, dirty thief who nearly killed my friend.

When I glance at Higgy next to me and Rick in the rearview mirror, I see the emotions on their faces that tell me they're thinking the same thing. I take another corner maybe a little too fast, but neither of my passengers comments on my driving.

Rick's expression tells me he's dealing with a rush of similar memories to the ones I keep seeing in my mind's eye. Even though I try to squash them, memories of the things we went through back in the POW camp won't leave me alone. I remember the agony of seeing one of my closest friends in the world dragged away from my sight again and again, leaving me to wonder what could be happening and if I'd ever see him again. I see the times we nearly lost each other, the long nights spent holding the hand of one or another of our gang while desperately trying to figure out how to save his life.

One memory that keeps coming back to haunt me happened when the guards had picked on Thomas—again. They'd unlocked our cell, yelled orders, kicked Nuzo when he didn't move fast enough, and then hauled T.M. to his feet. My buddy had just looked at us with determined eyes, in that way he always did, tired of the repeated tortures but intent on never giving in to our captors. We'd all agreed we'd never let them win—even though that promise was harder and harder to keep with each passing day.

Then Thomas had been roughly dragged away, and I remember how my chest had ached at the idea of what might be coming next for him. It had felt like an eternity before the guards returned, shoving our friend back into our midst, slamming and locking the door, turning, leaving. Their coarse laughter had echoed through the dim room as they'd gone. Thomas had stayed where he'd fallen, huddled in a heap and shivering even though it was hot as Hades. We'd been by his side in an instant, gently murmuring encouragement to him, trying to move his hands so we could find out where the blood was originating.

The similarities between us discovering the ugly knife wounds along Thomas's torso then and the moment we'd found him on Higgy's floor last night don't escape me. I grit my teeth and clench the steering wheel harder. I can vividly recall the feeling of my buddy's blood on my hands, the desperate looks that had passed between me and Nuzo and Rick as we'd tried to figure out how to make sure Thomas pulled through—

"T.C.?" Higgy's hand on my arm breaks into my thoughts.

I shake my head and glance sideways at her. She's watching me in concern.

"You all good, brother?" Rick asks from behind me.

I take one hand from the wheel to wipe my face as I nod. "Yeah," I tell them, taking a deep breath. "I'm good. Just thinkin'."

The way Rick pats my shoulder tells me he knows what I'm thinking about. Higgy glances at the two of us, and the corner of her mouth tucks up sadly. She gives us a knowing look, then turns back to look out the windshield.

"Are we close?" she asks, reaching for the glove box.

I glance over to see her retrieving a black semi-automatic pistol, and she quickly checks the magazine before snapping it back into place and chambering a round. As she sits forward to tuck the weapon into her waistband, I hear the sound of Rick doing the same behind me.

Higgy turns with a questioning look. "Not that I'm complaining, but where did you get that? I don't recall having stashed a backup in your vicinity."

In response, Rick just shrugs and finishes prepping his weapon. "I stuck one in here months ago. Better safe than sorry."

She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she's amused. "Fair enough, I suppose. I have my own spares stashed in each of your vehicles."

I blink. "Wait, you mean you put a _ loaded _weapon in my van? In reach of my customers?"

"Relax, buddy. If they were gonna find it, they'd have found it by now," Rick pipes up. "And since mine was still there when I checked on it yesterday, I'm sure Higgy's is fine too."

Scowling in his direction through the mirror, I sigh. "Only reason I don't yell at you for that one, Orville, is because I might have stashed _ my _ own spare in _ your _car."

"Oh, I figured." Rick shrugs casually.

"So I suppose this means you have a spare weapon hidden someplace in this vehicle as well?" Higgins turns to me.

I take a tight curve and then slow to a stop across the road from Cooper's Body Works. Glancing up and down the street, I spy Katsumoto's vehicle parked a few yards away. "Of course," I respond to Higgy's question, giving her a wink. When Rick hops out of the backseat, I reach through the open door to retrieve my pistol from where I'd hidden it.

Higgins rolls her eyes. "Right, then, if we're all suitably armed."

And then Detective Katsumoto comes up to join us, and we all grow serious as we turn to him.

I raise my eyebrow as I take in the fresh bruise on the side of his face, but he doesn't say anything about it, just nods in greeting. "I have backup on the way," he tells us.

"We have no time to lose," Rick speaks up. "Why don't we just go talk to the guy now ourselves? You've got us if things go sideways."

Katsumoto pauses for a moment and looks between the three of us, then sighs. "Right. The plan is just to go in and ask to talk to Takemura. Higgins, you come with me. Rick, T.C., you two cover the back door. We're not letting this guy get away."

We all nod solemnly, and Rick and I jog across the street after checking the coast is clear. As we round the corner of the building, we see Higgins and Katsumoto strolling toward the front door. And then we keep going and the side of the building blocks our view.

There's trash strewn around in the alley behind the shop, and we can hear metallic clanging through the walls. Rick and I take up positions opposite the door, our guns out and ready to whip up in a moment's notice. The feeling in the air is tense. Neither of us says anything; we just keep watch as Katsumoto had requested.

Several moments go by with nothing happening, and I glance at my watch. I'm about to turn to Rick when the large metal door slams open.

A tall, solidly built man comes tumbling through the doorway, and he stops in his tracks when he sees us. His arms pinwheel as he halts his momentum. It's not Peter Takemura, but the guy did just come flying out of the shop like he's running from something, so I'm not taking any chances.

"Stop right there!" I yell, raising my gun at him.

The guy blinks, clearly not expecting this response. Then he slowly nods and starts to put his hands up. I keep my gun on him as Rick tucks his own in his pants and moves to grab the guy's hands.

In the next second, another man, this one shorter than the first, comes running from the body shop as well. He takes in the scene in front of him in one glance and quickly alters his path, darting past Rick and our prisoner and making a beeline for the street.

"I got him!" I yell, even as the man Rick's almost reached decides to take advantage of the lack of a gun trained on him and throws a punch at my friend's face.

Ignoring the fistfight and trusting Rick to hold his own, I give chase. The guy is fast, faster than I'd have expected, and he's already halfway down the block. I can't let him get away, not if he knows something about the man who tried to kill Thomas.

I can hear my breathing, harsh and ragged, and make a mental note to add more miles to my workout routine. Clearly, I can use them. But I'm closing the gap, little by little, and I can see the fear in my target's eyes when he turns around to see where I am.

Pushing myself harder, I advance on him. He's so close; I can almost reach out and touch him. I put on one more burst of speed and throw myself forward, catching him in his back and sending him sprawling forward.

I'm on him in an instant, but the guy is cat-like in his reflexes. He's already flipped onto his back, and he sends a well-aimed kick in my direction as I come down on him. It misses me as I sidestep, and then the guy is already on his feet.

He throws a punch aimed at my jaw, and I duck and throw one of my own. It's a glancing blow across his chin, and he staggers but doesn't go down. Instead, he rushes forward, catching my stomach with his head. It drives me back a few steps, but then I reach down and grab him in a choke hold.

He struggles for a moment then breaks it, whirling and slamming a fist into my face. I feel it hit my cheekbone and don't look forward to seeing how that bruise turns out. But no time to dwell on that right now. I catch him off-guard with a quick blow to his gut, then I throw another that connects with the side of his face and sends him toppling to the ground.

I'm on him again before he can react, and I grab his arms and haul him to his feet. He's dazed and doesn't struggle, and I'm grateful for that.

"Come on, you," I growl, starting back down the street toward the shop. I can only hope this guy or one of his friends is willing to talk. I know the stabbing had happened in the heat of the moment, so it's not like I'm in need of an explanation… but I am. I want to look Takemura in the face and ask him what he was thinking, why he felt like killing a man was his only option in that moment. And yes, I realize he didn't _ actually _kill Thomas, but he was going for that general result when he decided to pull the knife. Normal people don't just stab other people.

By the time I get my guy back to the shop, the others are already gathered out front. Rick's sporting a bruised eye, his lip is split, and the red shirt he'd borrowed from Thomas is covered in dirt. Katsumoto and Higgins look only slightly more put together. In addition to the bruise he'd previously been sporting, the detective has a gash above his left eye and his tie is loose. Higgy's hair is mussed and she's got a rip in the sleeve of her blouse.

But what I'm focused on is the man lying unconscious on the pavement just outside the front door of the shop. Takemura.

"He tried to get past us while we were busy with his buddies," Katsumoto remarks. He shakes his head and then winces, putting a hand to his side. Noticing all of our concerned looks, he just waves us off. "I'm fine. And he'll be fine, too," he indicates Takemura. "Got a lot of questions to answer once he wakes up."

I glance at Rick, who sighs and gives me a grim smile in response. We've done it. We've gotten the guy responsible for putting our buddy in the hospital. I feel something loose inside my chest, and I take a deep breath of my own. It's over. It's done. We'll be able to get answers and see this guy face justice.

"I've got units on the way to help transport the prisoners," Katsumoto tells us, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "I didn't expect this to turn into an all-out brawl. Thanks for the backup." He nods to us, then his phone rings and he turns to answer it.

Looking back to Rick and Higgy, I give them both a smile. It's the most genuine I feel like I've mustered since this whole thing started the night before. "We got him," I tell my friends, extending my hand.

Rick clasps it. "We got 'im, brother," he echoes. Then he turns and holds out an arm to Higgins. "The guy responsible for Thomas being in that hospital is getting what's coming to him."

But she doesn't lean into the offered hug. Whatever she says in response is drowned out by the wailing of sirens as several patrol cars round the corner and screech to a halt. Their lights are flashing, and uniformed officers swarm out like ants from an anthill.

I turn back to Higgins. She's shaking her head now, and she looks absolutely crestfallen. The emotions of guilt and sorrow on her face make my stomach clench.

"This… this is all my fault," she says hoarsely.

"What?" I look at Rick and then back at Higgy. She can't mean the takedown, so she must be talking about everything, about Thomas being in the hospital. But… "What do you mean, it's your fault? Because it's not."

Higgins bites her lip. "No, it… it is. If I hadn't had the brilliant idea of having a surprise party, Thomas wouldn't be fighting for his life in a hospital bed right now." The words come tumbling out of her, spilling out as if unbidden, and she draws in a shuddering breath. Tears are dancing in her eyes. "Everything that happened is on me."

And then she whirls around as if she can't bear to look at us any longer and strides across the street to where we'd left the Rover.

Rick and I look after her for a moment, then back at each other. We both know it's not the least bit true, but that's not the only thing running through my head. No, my thoughts are now conjuring up another memory from our POW days, this one as dark and ragged-edged as they come.

I swallow and turn to my friend. One look at Rick's face confirms he's already following my train of thought. "Rick…"

"Yeah, I know," he replies. It's his turn to inhale a sharp breath. "I know," he repeats quietly. "It sounds just like me."

I put a hand on his back. "You good, bro?"

Smiling his thanks in a way that tells me he's close to breaking down and the grin is his attempt at keeping it all together, he swallows. "Thanks. Yeah, I'm good." He looks in the direction Higgy just went.

I follow his gaze and see her sitting on the curb, legs outstretched, staring pointedly at the ground. "You wanna…?"

Sniffing out an affirmative sigh, Rick nods slowly. "Yeah… yeah, I think she needs to hear it."

"You want me along?" I ask. I know what the memory has done to him over the years—what it's undoubtedly going to do to him to recount it to Higgy—and I'm worried about the prospect. But I also trust my friend, and if he says he can get through it, then I believe him.

Rick pauses for just a moment longer. He takes another deep breath, steeling himself for what he's about to do. "Nah, thanks," he tells me, reaching up to lay a hand on my shoulder for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he pulls his hand down, turns, and jogs over to where Higgins hasn't moved from her spot by the Rover.

I watch him go, my heart clenching at the flashes of recall now dancing through my memories. There's also pain there at what I realize Higgy must have been going through all night, and I shake my head at myself. How had I not seen it before? I'd seen those emotions on others' faces over the years—Thomas's for us getting captured by the Taliban, Nuzo's those times when his rudimentary first aid in the camp had looked like it would fail, Rick's when…

I sigh and scrub my hand over my face. Hopefully, Rick can get through to Higgy, because this is most certainly _ not _her fault, and I've seen what false blame like this can do to people.

I don't know if I can handle watching another member of my family go through that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! I had this chapter ready to go, but I took a quick vacation and didn't end up putting it up as planned. However, here we are now. I would say I hope you all enjoy, but... this is where those warnings I talked about earlier come into play, and, based on the feels I had when writing it, all I can say is just to embrace them wholeheartedly. 0:)

_ (Rick) _

"Is this seat taken?" I ask, cracking a smile as I lower myself onto the edge of the curb next to Jules.

She glances over and silently shrugs a shoulder.

"Thanks," I acknowledge.

We're both quiet for a few beats, staring at nothing in particular, then I look over at her. There are faint tracks of tear marks on her cheeks, and she's got her arms wrapped around herself as if she's cold, even though it's a warm Hawaiian afternoon.

"You're wrong, you know," I finally say.

That draws her gaze over to me, but she snorts a wry chuckle. "Right. Because Magnum wouldn't have been in the main house if it weren't for my brilliant plan to empty his kitchen of food so that he'd have to come looking for breakfast in my kitchen." She shakes her head and looks forward again. "No, Rick, I'm afraid this is completely my fault. If only I'd left those infernal eggs alone—"

"Hey," I interrupt, my voice gentle but firm. "This isn't on you."

She lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, right, and you know that how?" she asks. I know it's the pain speaking, but her words bite as she snaps off the end of each.

I sigh, slightly surprised at the severity of my shuddering breath. "I… happen to have some experience in that area," I reply. I close my eyes as the memories start flooding back, then take another deep breath and look back to the woman sitting beside me. "Back when, um, when we were prisoners in the camp, the guards liked to… well, to toy with us. Some sort of demented idea of fun they had, I guess; I don't know their reasoning—not sure I want to," I add.

Higgins is quiet, watching me.

I give her a sad smile and launch into my story. "It had been a while since we'd been taken; I can't say how long because the days all just seemed to run together in a blur. Every so often, the guards decided to single one of us out for, uh, some alone time." I make a face. "Thomas got the brunt of it; I think because he annoyed them so much. He was always trying to steal radios, steal guns, whatever he could, and they punished him for it—couldn't break him, though, boy, did they try. But we never knew who they were going to choose on any particular day, and, on this particular day, it was my turn."

I grow quiet for a moment as I think about my friends and what we'd all gone through. I know I can't stop to dwell on the emotions that accompany the memories or else I'll never get through this. And Higgy needs to hear the whole thing. I clear my throat and continue.

"They brought me to a dim, dirty room somewhere in the compound." I shrug. "And then they dumped me there and started yelling questions at me that I couldn't have answered even if I'd wanted to. I did my best to hold out, and they did their best to pull information out of me, but… well, anyway, they eventually got tired of it and left me alone."

I glance over at Higgins. Her expression is hard to read, but I know she's not sure where this story is going. So I swallow and continue, "I can't tell you how long I huddled in the corner of the room before they came back. I remember telling myself I could get through whatever was coming, but… nothing could have prepared me for what was next."

The memories are all coming back in a rush, and I don't dare stop to dwell on them. I need to make it through my story, but my emotions are threatening to choke me. So I stare straight ahead, ignoring Higgins, and forge on.

* * *

Rick looked up from where he'd retreated to a corner of the room, sitting awkwardly on the floor, favoring his right side as he hunched over. If his captors were back, that meant it was time for more questions, and he didn't want to think about what they might have in store for him.

His stomach dropped as Thomas stumbled into the room as if pushed forward roughly. There was a thick hood over his head, but Rick would recognize his friend anywhere. Thomas's hands were bound behind him, and, when one of the two guards who had walked in directly behind Thomas shoved him again, the prisoner wasn't able to catch himself as he tripped over his own feet and sprawled on the ground.

"Up!" the burly man barked, prodding Thomas's side none-too-gently with the toe of his boot.

A groan could be heard through the hood as Thomas shifted as if to obey, but it seemed he couldn't get his weight to roll over enough to actually get himself to his feet.

This did not please the guard. _ "Up!" _the man yelled, kicking him harder.

Rick winced in sympathy, chest aching, knowing he couldn't do a thing.

And then Rick heard the door creak open again, and his stomach plummeted even further. He told himself he wasn't going to look, but when he heard the telltale shuffling that indicated another prisoner was being shoved inside the room, Rick's blood froze. Had they grabbed T.C. or Nuzo, too? Whatever this was couldn't be good. More than once, the Americans had been used against each other for "motivation," and something in his gut told him this was another such occurrence.

He wasn't sure he could take it, not today. He was starving, he was exhausted, his whole body hurt… Could he really hold out against his friends being hurt in front of him—or seeing their faces when he was tortured to get to them?

But then he looked up and all of his thoughts seemed to halt in confusion.

The new arrival was hooded as well, but it wasn't either of his other buddies. This man was dirty and appeared not to have changed his clothes in weeks, so he must have been held for some time, but that still didn't explain why the man was _ there _ right then with Rick and Thomas.

And then the older man—they called him "the general"—who always showed up for the really good stuff stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He crossed his arms and regarded the prisoners for a moment, then waved a hand at his underlings.

Two of the men reached down to haul Thomas to his feet. One reached forward and yanked the hood off of the prisoner's head. Thomas squinted in the suddenly bright light.

"This man is your friend, yes?" the general asked Rick in his heavily accented voice.

The two Americans exchanged looks, and Rick didn't know what to say. The general knew they were friends, but Rick dreaded what would come if he answered truthfully.

Clearing his throat, Thomas answered for him. "Well, you could say that." He shrugged a shoulder.

Rick's stomach had clenched when his friend had started to speak. Annoying their captors was the last thing Thomas needed to do right now. Sure enough, one of the guards stepped forward and smashed a fist into Thomas's stomach, drawing a retching, gasping cough in response.

The general signaled his men again. One of those holding Thomas kicked the back of the prisoner's knees savagely. Thomas grunted in pain as his legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground. The guard grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked him into a kneeling position, drawing a quiet cry in the process. But even still, when Thomas looked up and met Rick's gaze, the expression in his eyes past the pain was one of defiance.

When the stranger was also forced to his knees and his hood ripped off of his head, Rick could see the same look in the man's eyes as in Thomas's, and something about it helped Rick find his resolve. Whatever was going to happen, Rick wouldn't—couldn't—let their captors break him. That would be letting them win, and that was not an option.

The general smiled coldly and looked between Thomas and the other prisoner. "I think I will give you a choice today," he said slowly, as if he'd just decided in that moment. "Yes," he nodded, "I will let you make the decision for me. Which of these men should I kill?"

Rick's stomach dropped straight into his toes.

"Tell me," the general continued, tilting his head to study the prisoner across from him, still hunched on the floor, "who dies today? This man here," he indicated the man on his left, "or this man?" and he indicated Thomas on his right.

Rick was shaking his head almost instinctively. This was crazy. He couldn't make that choice. His gaze darted between the two prisoners, and he swallowed hard. The man he'd never seen before looked steeled yet resigned to his fate. His buddy looked flat-out angry.

The general continued as if they were having the most casual conversation in the world. "You must make a choice," he said with a shrug. "One _ will _ die—do not doubt me on that—but I will let you keep your friend alive if you would like."

No, this was crazy. How could he possibly choose who was about to be shot? He couldn't live with himself if he allowed Thomas to die, but, at the same time, he wasn't about to sign the death certificate of another person being held in this hellhole.

He shook his head, turning back to face the general. "I… I can't," he managed.

With a raised eyebrow, the general snapped a terse command to his men and two of them drew sidearms from their belts. The barrels of the pistols lifted to aim directly at both of the prisoners kneeling on the ground.

"Choose."

Rick heard the command, but it was as if his mind couldn't—wouldn't—process the order. All he could focus on were the guns.

The general was furious now. _ "Pick!" _ he snarled.

Rick clenched his jaw. He didn't doubt the man's threat to shoot either of the prisoners, but there was no way Rick was going to give the order. If—or, more likely, _ when _—the shot was fired, the blood would be on the Taliban's hands alone. Not his. He gave Thomas a long, apologetic look and shot another at the unknown man, then raised his chin and stared the general down.

The two guns were cocked and re-aimed at the kneeling prisoners, sending tendrils of panic spiraling through Rick's chest, but he still refused to speak. There was nothing more to say, and he wasn't sure he trusted himself to open his mouth anyway.

Studying Rick's expression for a moment, the general snorted a laugh of derision. "Fine," he said, returning the stare with a sadistic gleam in his eye. "Then you want me to shoot them both."

Wait, no—

The sound of the shots was deafening, the muzzle flashes blinding.

The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air 

Rick couldn't think straight past the shock and horror tearing at his mind as he watched Thomas's body jerk at the impact of the bullet.

As if from a distance, Rick heard himself scream Thomas's name, and he threw himself forward almost before he was even on his feet. But two of the guards were already hauling the man's motionless form up, while another stepped forward to shove Rick hard. The clash of momentum sent Rick tumbling backward, and he slammed into the wall with a bone-jarring _ thud _ but immediately went for his friend again. Thomas was _ right there _ and Rick didn't know if he was dead or dying and he just needed to see for himself, to do what he could, to convince the guards to let him help his friend. But, before he could reach them, the guards dragged Thomas through the doorway. Rick could do nothing but watch as the door closed behind them.

The general gave Rick a long look and shook his head. "And to think you could have saved him." Then he turned on his heel and strode outside, the rest of his lackeys following him.

The door slammed shut, and Rick heard the telltale sign of a lock clicking into place outside.

Rick stood unmoving as he stared after the men who had disappeared. All he could see in his mind, even when he closed his eyes, was Thomas with that dark stain slowly spreading along his abdomen. He didn't know where the guards were taking Thomas, if they'd dump him back with T.C. and Nuzo or into a solitary cell like they so often did… the idea of Thomas bleeding out, all alone and in pain, wrenched at Rick's heart.

And then a pained gasp from off to his right caught Rick's attention, and he suddenly remembered Thomas hadn't been the only one shot.

He turned and saw the man lying on the floor in an awkward heap, arms still pinned behind his back. The guy's eyes were squeezed closed, and he was doing the same pained, fast, shallow breathing Rick had seen before with other guys—friends—lost on battlefields, and a cold feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

Ignoring the pain that flared through his own side, he scrambled across the dirt floor to the man. "Hey, hey, buddy," Rick said encouragingly, keeping his voice low in case their captors were right outside. His heart clenched as he took in the amount of blood already soaking the man's shirt. "Hey, can you tell me your name?" he asked gently, even as he moved to examine the guy's bonds. The coarse rope was wrapped tightly, but the knot looked sloppy, and Rick set to trying to work it free.

The man groaned but squinted his eyes open, blinking up at Rick with a pain-filled gaze. "Joe… Joseph…" he managed.

"Okay, Joe," Rick gave the man the most reassuring smile he could muster at the moment. "I'm Rick. How you holding up?"

Joe grimaced. "Been better."

"Yeah," Rick shook his head, his brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on the knot behind Joe's back. He was just about there… And then he let out a breath of relief as the knot loosened enough for him to pull the coils away from Joe's wrists, allowing the other man to slump into a more comfortable position.

Joe's hands immediately went to his side, and he squeezed his eyes shut and grunted in pain.

Shifting so the other man could lie flat on the ground, Rick gently tugged at his hands, trying to move them aside. "Here, let me see," he said quietly, reaching for the hem of the dirty t-shirt. He lifted it as gingerly as he could, but the shifting of the fabric against the man's side elicited a hiss of pain from Joe. "Sorry," Rick apologized with a wince.

His heart sank as he assessed the damage. Although he wasn't trained as a medic, he'd had _ some _ training and seen his fair share of injuries, and he knew right away it wasn't good. But he had to do _ something… _Reaching for one of the discarded hoods the guards had left on the ground, he pressed the thick, black fabric to Joe's side. The involuntary cry of pain that sprang from the man's throat at the sudden pressure tore at Rick's heart.

Panting as he tried to catch his breath again, Joe looked at Rick. "It's bad, huh?" he asked weakly.

Rick took a deep breath and then mustered up a tight smile. "Nah, man, you're gonna be fine." The lie felt dirty rolling from his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to tell the truth.

But Joe saw past the words, and his gaze focused in on Rick's. "Rick… c'mon, man… it's not good, is it?" He paused as he coughed, and his expression grew paler as he winced again.

Rick glanced down and noted the increased bleeding at the other man's movement. He didn't know what to say… What _ could _ he say, knowing Joe was dying and that Rick himself was solely responsible for it? He looked back at Joe's face and couldn't bring himself to smile again. "Joe, I'm sorry…"

The man closed his eyes against what seemed to be another wave of pain, then looked back up at Rick. "Nah, man… don't have to apologize."

Shaking his head, Rick removed the hood and refolded it to then press a dry portion of the fabric against the bullet wound.

Thomas's face flashed through Rick's mind. No, he couldn't think about that right now. Couldn't think about how his friend was almost certainly suffering through the same pain Joe was, face paler by the second. If Joe was fading before Rick's very eyes, what was happening to Thomas right then…?

Rick swallowed, his gaze misting over, and he channeled his emotions into pressing down harder on Joe's wound. He had to make sure the man made it, had to help him pull through. He couldn't do anything for Thomas right now, but he could do his absolute best to keep Joe alive. He couldn't stop to think about Thomas, couldn't stop to imagine—

"Rick." The weak sound of his name brought Rick's attention back to the man lying on the ground in front of him. Joe licked his lips. "I… I'm sorry, man."

"What?" Rick's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? You have nothing to be sorry for." If Rick had just done what he'd been told… but what else could he have done? He had no guarantee the men wouldn't have still shot both prisoners even if Rick had made a choice. It was a miserable, gut-wrenching situation with literally no upside.

Joe coughed, his face growing even paler past its already white sheen. "You… didn't do this," he said, so quietly that Rick had to lean forward to catch the words.

Shaking his head, Rick doubled down on the pressure against Joe's side. He had to get the bleeding stopped, had to get the guy past the worst of it. Their guards wouldn't leave them there forever, and then Rick would have access to some way to close up the wound, to—

A surprisingly strong grip on his wrist made Rick look down.

Joe was grasping his forearm, his eyes boring into Rick's. "Don't… blame yourself…" he said, his voice determined. "You can't… can't… can't"—coughing interrupted his words, and, this time, blood leaked from the corner of his mouth—"let them… win."

And then his gaze drifted to the wall across from them, and his hand dropped from Rick's arm as his gaze grew faraway, then vacant.

Rick suddenly felt very cold, the blood still soaking the fabric hot against his hands. He sat, staring at Joe's form, for what felt like an eternity until he summoned the energy to reach out a hand and slide it down the other man's face, gently closing his eyes.

It felt like he should say something, recite some sort of eulogy over the man who surely would not get one when he was dumped in a mass grave somewhere near the camp. But Rick couldn't get the words to form, couldn't even get his thoughts to formulate into anything coherent past the thought that this was all his fault. The feeling in his stomach continued to climb up his spine, snaking its chilly fingers into his throat.

He didn't know how long he sat there, holding Joe's still form, ice-cold guilt running through his veins, before the door flew open, and two guards stepped inside. They surveyed the scene with satisfaction, then moved forward and grabbed Rick.

He didn't even try to fight as they pulled him to his feet, and, when he tripped as they yanked him along, he could barely find the strength to gather his legs back under him to keep going. He had literal blood on his hands from a total stranger who had been caught up in their captors' cruel games… How was Rick ever going to explain to his friends what he'd done? What was he going to say to T.C. and Nuzo? 

Oh no. T.C. and Nuzo. He was going to have to break the news to them about Thomas, about what Rick had done…

They'd all been put through unthinkable experiences while captive, but this seemed like a whole different level. He was responsible for two deaths—one of whom was one of his best friends—one of _ their _best friends. They'd all worked to keep each other alive, and they'd succeed up until today—until Rick had finally failed at their one mission in this hellhole they'd found themselves in.

* * *

"I found out Thomas was still alive once the guards dragged me back to the cell," I continue, feeling the tears prickling at my eyes but refusing to let them out. "I was… shocked. But he was in such a bad way, Jules…" I hear my voice crack—the traitor. "Do you know how close we came to losing him during that next week? And the one thing I kept thinking was that, if he somehow didn't pull through, it would have been my fault." I trail off as the memories continue to rush through my mind and those old, scarred wounds resurface.

She finally speaks, her voice low and breathless. "Rick… you do realize it absolutely wasn't your fault?"

"That's what they said." I shake my head and scrub a hand over my face. "T.C., Nuzo, even Tommy…" I almost can't bring myself to even think about it, much less tell Juliet. "With all the pain he went through, he was only worried about making sure I knew it wasn't my fault." The tears are back again, and I feel one escape down my cheek. "You know, I never knew who Joe was." A shuddering sigh runs through me. "He could have been a reporter, another soldier, an aid worker… I never found out. But he died because of me, and I couldn't even find his family to tell them after we escaped."

Beside me, Jules shifts, and I feel her hand rest lightly on my back. "Rick," she says softly, "you couldn't possibly have done anything other than what you did. Don't take responsibility for other people's actions."

I look at her, then sniff and wipe my face again and give her a small smile. "So you see, Jules, you're not the only one who's ever blamed yourself for someone you care about getting hurt."

She tilts her head and starts, "Rick, that's not..." before trailing off with a sigh.

"Isn't it?" I ask, shaking my head. "It's _ not _ your fault what happened to Thomas, and I'm telling you this as someone who _ knows _ first-hand. The temptation to blame yourself is there, and it's strong, but"—I look her in the eyes—"you have to resist it, girl. Tell yourself you're not to blame, because you're not. Yes, you stole Thomas's eggs, but that's all you did. It is _ not _ your fault those dognappers broke into Robin's Nest. And it's most _ certainly _not your fault that dirtbag stabbed Thomas."

She clears her throat and looks away.

"And I can guarantee you he'll say the same thing."

Her shoulders hunch, and then she turns to look sideways at me. Her eyes are full of tears, but there's the beginnings of a small smile tugging up one corner of her mouth. "Thanks, Rick," she whispers. "And, for what it's worth," she adds as she gains a little more control of her voice, "I'm so sorry for what those men did."

They're words I've heard before from many people in varying stages of sincerity, but they mean a lot coming from family. I haven't heard them from Higgins before, and something about their kindness settles, warm, in my heart.

"Thanks," I reply.

A moment's pause passes between us, then we hear T.C. clear his throat beside us. We turn, and he's standing awkwardly, as if he didn't want to interrupt but had no choice. My eyes immediately dart to the phone in his hand, and I know Higgy's seen it, too.

"He's awake," is all he says, but it's all he needs to say.

* * *

_ (Magnum) _

The world is foggy, tinged gray at the edges with the effects of whatever drugs they have me on. I blink up at the ceiling above me as doctors and nurses move around at my bedside. They're fiddling with machines, taking readings, adding things to my IV, fiddling with the monitors hooked up to my chest.

I just lie back and let them at it. I don't have the energy to look over to observe the activity even if I was curious about what they're doing. I've spent too much time in hospitals in my life, and all I want to do is just forget the memories this is bringing back to me now. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can't escape what's in my head.

Images of the weeks spent in military hospitals once we escaped are flooding my mind, and I really don't want to deal with the rush of emotions and memories washing over me. The wounds—some older and healed over, some fresher and not quite repaired—that the doctors had to clean and inspect and document. The constant stream of fluids, the repeated tests and exams. Everything that happened to us in those eighteen months had left its mark in some way, and I think even the doctors were shocked at some of those marks we came home bearing.

I shake my head faintly. No, that doesn't matter now. This isn't the aftermath of captivity. This is different. I'm fine. Everything is—

Dull pain flares through my side, and I can't help the cry that breaks through my lips as I grab at it. Flashes of a dim memory engulf me without warning—a time that doesn't seem far away any more, of a robed guard and a knife—and I know I can't let that happen again.

"Mr. Magnum." The voice is soft but commanding. It lacks the rough accent of the men in the camp, but I can't seem to shake the images now taking over my vision.

"Thomas, you have to lie still."

_ "Lie still…" _

The hospital ceiling disappears, and a wooden roof fills my vision. I'm no longer in a soft bed but on a hard dirt floor. It's so real, I can smell the dank atmosphere. There's a flashlight in my eyes, a snarling smile on the face of the guard suddenly looming in front of me. I try to push back, to retreat across the room, knowing if I put some space in between us, then maybe I'll survive.

But I can't move. There's something firm at my back, and, no matter how hard I push with my feet, I don't get very far at all. I try again to scramble out of the way and put my hands up, trying to defend myself, but the figure keeps coming.

There's more pain at my side now, less muted and more sharp, and it feels like someone's shoved something dull under my ribs. There's a tearing feeling at my side, carrying with it its own wave of pain.

I glance down, see blood starting to spread across my shirt. The light blue fabric gives way to a dirty brown t-shirt. Looking back up, I can see the shadow of the guard again. His lips are moving, but I can't make out words; I'm solely focused on the sharp object he's holding. It looks like a knife, and I try to block the blow as he brings it down.

It glances across the back of my right hand. It stings, and blood starts to drip from a fresh cut. I throw my arms up, try to stop him, try to keep his hands and his knife from me.

Now I can hear more voices shouting in the distance, but they're muffled, and I can't make out the words. I feel hands grabbing at my arms and look around wildly to see more guards moving to pin me down. I can't let them get to me, can't leave myself vulnerable to whatever they're planning to do.

The only emotion I can feel is fear, deep-seated and cold, and I fight against the grasp of the guards. I throw a fist, aiming for the closest one's face, and I feel it glance across his jaw. He cries out and drops away, but there are more hands on me now, pinning my hands down at my sides.

This can't be happening, not like this. I can't let it happen. My friends are waiting for me back in the cell; they'll never know what happened if I let these guys kill me here.

Someone is holding my feet, and I kick, trying to free myself. The guards are strong. Someone's telling me to lie still, but I refuse. I'm growing weaker, I can feel it, but I'm not going to give up. Not until I literally can't fight any longer.

_ "Thomas?" _

I know that voice. T.C.? Oh no; they have T.C.

I strain to look ahead, to see through the shadows in the hut, but I can't make out anything other than flickers and hints of movement.

_ T.C.? Where… where are you? _

_ "Thomas!" _

_ T.C.! _

The realization renews my determination to get free. They're going to hurt him. I can't let them do that. I manage to wrench a leg free and lash out, hoping to catch another of those guards, maybe where it'll count the most.

Then something snakes around my ankle and won't let go, and I realize I can't move my leg. As soon as I notice, the same thing happens to the other. I look down to see coils of rough rope circling my feet, holding me down, and I tug against the bonds to no avail. My moment of distraction gives the guards the opening they need to snake ropes around my wrists, which they pull firmly to either side.

No. No, this can't be happening.

_ I have to get to T.C.! _

I struggle to free myself, feeling my chest heaving, feeling more pain shooting through my side.

Something pricks my arm, and I glance down in a panic, but I don't see anything. And then, the walls start to grow gray and faraway, and I barely have time to wonder what's coming next before everything grows dark.

* * *

_ (T.C.) _

"What do you mean, he punched a nurse?" Higgins looks horrified.

I shake my head as I play back the scene in the hospital room. We'd just gotten off the elevator, cheered by the news from the nurse that our buddy was awake, when a ruckus from Thomas's room echoed down the hallway.

We'd all bolted for his room. Me being the first one off the elevator meant I was ahead, and my longer legs covered more distance than Rick's or Higgy's, putting me in the room first. A glance around had clenched my stomach as I'd seen Thomas thrashing in the bed, fighting against the medical staff gathered around his bed. I'd been just in time to see his fist catch one of the nurses on the jaw.

They were trying to keep him from hurting himself, but I could see by the blood staining the side of his hospital gown that he must have already torn his stitches.

Thomas was mumbling something about not letting "them" take him out, not letting "them" win, and I realized right away what was happening.

"He's having flashbacks!" I had called to Doctor Olina, who looked my way and raised an eyebrow. I tried to convey the necessary information as quickly as possible. "We served together in Afghanistan; we were in a POW camp for months."

Something clicked in her face at that, and she gave me a sympathetic smile, and then turned back to bark orders at her people.

T.M. was still fighting, and I was getting worried. We'd all had some terrible experiences—ones that still give me nightmares sometimes even now—and I knew this had to be bad with the way he was still fighting. It must be a combination of the drugs and the trauma he'd gone through at the house.

"Thomas?" I called, unable to stop myself. Maybe hearing my voice would help ground him, give him something to hold onto to pull himself back to reality. It had worked once already today.

He shifted and looked my way, although I could tell his eyes weren't focused on anything in the room itself. "T.C.?" he asked. "Where… where are you?"

The pain in his voice was palpable.

I swallowed. "Thomas!" _ 'It's me,' _ I wanted to say. _ 'I'm here, and you're safe.' _But he yells my name again before I can continue, and the raw emotion felt like someone had punched me in the gut.

_ "T.C.!" _

Thomas nearly broke free from the nurses' grip then, and I stepped forward as if maybe I could help. But then another nurse ran by me, and I realized the doctor had called for restraints.

My chest clenched as I watched them pin my friend down—for his own good, I knew, but it didn't hurt any less. I realized what Thomas must be thinking if he was living in a past memory at that moment. He would be seeing ropes and chains and rough guards, not medical staff trying to save his life.

I saw Thomas manage to wrench a leg free and lash out blindly, then the restraints were on and pulled tight. The emotions on my buddy's face as he realized he was tied down will probably haunt me for the rest of my life.

"No!" he yelled. "T.C. I have to get to T.C.!"

"Sir, you need to leave." A nurse was looking at me, a firm but sad expression on her face. "He's getting worse with you in here. You need to leave."

I realized she was right, so I didn't argue. I simply retreated out the door to where Rick and Higgins were standing in shock. Higgy's hand was over her mouth, and Rick looked like he wanted to punch something.

"Come on," I said gently, putting a hand on Higgy's arm. "Let's go sit down. The doctor will be out in a minute."

Thomas's yells echoed down the hallway after us, and it was all I could do to keep my feet moving until we reached the chairs and sank down into them.

After a moment, Rick and Higgy wanted details of what they'd missed, of course, and I managed to recount what I'd seen.

"What do you mean he punched a nurse?" Higgy rubs her forehead, sounding horrified, both for what Thomas had done as well as what must have been going through his mind. We all know that's out of character for our friend.

I shake my head. "He was having flashbacks," I offer. "It sounded like a mix of a few different memories. Something must have triggered it when the nurses were working."

Rick and I share a look. I know he's thinking of times he's dealt with the same traumatic recurrences, because that's what's running through my own mind right now.

A glance at Higgy shows she's close to tears, and she shakes her head. I don't know the whole story, but, from what we learned when her old MI6 colleague came to the island, I do know she can probably relate in some ways.

"You okay?" I ask, the question aimed at both of my friends.

Rick sighs deeply. "I just thought this was over, man," he says. He puts his forearms on his knees and leans forward, rubbing his face. "We caught the guy, Thomas woke up… Things were looking up, you know?"

We both nod.

"I know," Higgy says gently, rubbing Rick's back. "So did I."

A moment passes quietly, none of us knowing what to say next, until a voice interrupts our silence.

"Excuse me."

Our heads go up to see Thomas's doctor standing nearby, clipboard in hand. Immediately, the three of us are on our feet, anxiously waiting for the woman's next words.

"He's sedated for now," she tells us gently. "Unfortunately, it appears the drugs induced a hallucination that was more than he could take in his current state. We've done our best to make him comfortable, but, unfortunately, we are going to need to keep him restrained for the time being." She looks between us. "I'll reevaluate once he wakes up, but I'm hopeful it was a one-time occurrence and that he'll shortly be past the flashbacks and no longer require such drastic measures."

I nod. "We understand, Doc."

She smiles kindly. "I know this is hard for all of you. I'm sorry I don't have better news, but we should know more in a few hours once the sedative wears off."

"Can we sit with him?" Higgins asks, leaning in as if anticipating the answer.

Doctor Olina nods. "You may, but please remember to keep it quiet. Thomas needs as little excitement as possible for the time being."

"Thanks," Rick says gratefully.

"Of course. I'll check in on him in a little while," the doctor says, then she gives us a nod and turns back toward the nurses' station.

We look between each other, but, before any of us can say anything, we hear a familiar voice from down the hallway.

"Juliet!"

We glance up to see Kumu hurrying to join us.

"Rick! T.C.!" She stops beside us, breathing heavily, her phone in her hand. "I'm so sorry I didn't get your messages until just now. I was asleep at first, and then my phone was dead when I woke up, and I finally was able to check my messages." She looks to Higgy, her eyes searching for information. "How is he? What's going on?"

Higgy shakes her head. "He's out of surgery, Kumu, but it's… he's not awake." Her voice breaks, and she clenches her fist as if willing her emotions back into place.

"He had an… episode," Rick supplies. "The drugs made him think he was back overseas, and they had to restrain him for safety."

Kumu's eyes widen. "Whose safety?"

"His own," I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. "They're just worried about Thomas, Kumu." The look that she gives me reminds me of my auntie growing up.

She takes a deep breath and, nods, then reaches out to wrap Higgy in a hug. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here earlier," she says softly. "Now," she continues after a moment as Higgins steps back, "are these doctors letting us see him or do I have to call my godson in Cardiology to come and give them a talking-to?"

* * *

_ (Katsumoto) _

I finally get a minute to check my phone once I've finished all of the initial work involved with processing the prisoners we arrested at the body shop. There's plenty of paperwork to do as well, but I ignore it for the time being. I'd asked the others to send me an update once they'd gotten back to the hospital, and I'm hopeful the call T.C. got about Magnum being awake had led to more good news.

There is an unread text from Rick, but the preview doesn't look as promising as I'd hoped. I hurriedly click to read the whole thing, and my heart sinks. I was hoping Magnum would be awake and on his way to recovering by now. Instead, Rick's message makes my stomach churn.

_ 'They had to sedate him. Hallucinations. Hopeful it was just a reaction to the drugs. Will know more later.' _

I sigh and stare at the screen, taking in the words. Rick sounds cautiously optimistic, but I know how close he and Magnum are. I can just imagine the toll all of this is taking on him, as well as on T.C. and Higgins. I've seen how much they all mean to each other.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I wince as I accidentally aggravate the bruises I'm sporting from the day's fights. Of course, the time I get into two fistfights in the course of a day, it's all Magnum's fault. I should start keeping a list of the things that I go through because of him. Absently, I rub my side where my ribs took that hit earlier, thinking over the case.

I'm just relieved we got to Takemura before he'd fled the island. Based on what we've learned so far, Takemura was in the process of arranging a ride in a buddy's boat when we'd tracked him down. We were only a couple of hours away from losing him completely, and I'm extremely glad we were able to get to him before that happened.

With one more glance back at my phone, I tuck it in my pocket and turn to my paperwork. The sooner I can finish it, the sooner I can go check in on everyone at the hospital. I find myself hoping Magnum will wake up soon and be past the hallucinations Rick mentioned.

Besides, I need Magnum's statement anyway, and I can do that much more effectively in person.


	5. Chapter 5

_(T.C.)_

I shift in my seat and glance at my watch. It feels as if days have gone by since the three of us had been at the grocery store, picking up supplies for a surprise party that never ended up happening—and yes, the fact that Thomas has spent his birthday in a hospital hasn't escaped me. Has it really only been… what, seventeen hours? since this whole horrible chain of events had been set in motion? It feels like it's been a lifetime, and still no change in Thomas's condition.

Glancing to my right, I see Rick tapping at his phone screen. He's already told me he called in to the club and gotten one of the shift managers to cover for him tonight; he's supposed to be closing, but he'd been adamant there was no way he was leaving the hospital until we've gotten more news. I don't blame him; none of us want to go very far in case something changes, so none of us had tried to dissuade his decision. For worse or for better, we're going to be here for our friend.

I glance down the hall toward Thomas's room. We've decided to take turns sitting with him; we don't want to overwhelm him and make things worse again, but, on the other hand, there is no way we are letting him wake up alone. Not again.

I can't help but think that things might have been different if someone had been here earlier in the day. Instead, we were all out chasing bad guys while our buddy was in the hospital all alone. And, while I know there's no guarantee one of us could have kept him grounded, I also can't shake the thought that a lack of familiar faces contributed to the start of his flashbacks. But I know from personal experience that isn't always the case. This whole situation is triggering some pretty vivid memories in my own mind, both from the Korengal and from the military hospital afterward. How much worse must it be for Thomas to be lying in that bed, in pain and on drugs—

"Here," a voice breaks into my thoughts. "I thought you boys might be hungry."

Glancing up, I see Kumu settling into a chair across from Rick and me. She's bearing three Styrofoam containers, and I can smell the seafood already.

"Thanks, Kumu, but I'm not really hungry," Rick remarks, giving the older woman a small but grateful smile.

She frowns and takes the top box from her stack, holding it out to him with a no-nonsense look on her face. "I'm pretty sure none of you have eaten at all today and since who-knows-when yesterday!"

He opens his mouth to protest, but she raises an eyebrow and stops him in his tracks.

"Eat."

"Thanks, Kumu," he says reluctantly, accepting the container.

With a nod of satisfaction, she hands him a paper-wrapped pair of chopsticks.

I don't even bother arguing. "Thanks, Kumu," I echo Rick.

She watches us intently until we each have taken several bites, then nods in satisfaction and sits back in her chair. There's one remaining box still in her hands that she sets on the end table beside her. "Juliet's with him now?"

"Yeah," Rick says around a mouthful. "She and T.C. just traded off a few minutes ago."

"How is he?"

The question makes us pause, and I glance at Rick before replying. "Uh, about the same." I sigh and glance away, then looks back at Kumu. "The doctors are saying he can wake up at any time now that the sedative has worn off, but he's still out of it. It's just his body working on healing; it'll be up to him when he finally comes back to us."

She nods slowly. "Well, if I know Thomas Magnum, he's nothing if not a fighter. He'll come back to us when he's ready."

* * *

_(Magnum)_

The darkness is punctuated with brief flashes of images, there and then gone. At first, they're rushing by too fast, and I can't make out anything beyond dim shadows and muffled sounds. Everything's moving so fast, and I strain to focus, to grasp onto something that will ground me. It's so dark, and everything is so fluid; I don't know where I am or what's going on… and I'm not sure how to find out. I want nothing more than to pull myself out of whatever dark, confusing hole I've managed to fall into, but I don't know _how._

Then the images start to become more real, more solid. There are still shadows flickering at the edges, but the figures are starting to take shape. At first, I'm relieved, but that feeling quickly turns to cold fear as I realize where I am.

The wooden walls and damp dirt floor start a sinking feeling in my gut that continues as I hear rough laughter filtering in from somewhere outside. No.

No, no, no.

But it _is_ there, as real as anything, and I sink back as I realize I'm in solitary—again—still trapped in the nightmare in the Korengal Valley. Any thoughts or dreams I'd had of home, of life after this hellhole, were just that: dreams. As much as I wish they were real, _this _is my reality.

I hear more laughter, footsteps, voices drifting through the cracks in the beams. Something's coming, something bad, and I can't do anything to escape it.

More voices now, and I _try _to push them away, to block them out of my mind. I can't focus on them, on what's undoubtedly coming. If I hope to get through this—

But then the voices are gone. The sudden silence is almost as bad as actually hearing my captors. I can't even brace for what's coming if I can't hear anything.

I notice everything starting to grow dark again, and I shake my head. I can't pass out, no matter how hungry or tired or hurting I am. No, I have to stay awake. For me. For my buddies. I have to…

My thoughts trail off as another sound prods at the edges of my consciousness, and I pause. That voice… I know that voice. It's soft, kind. There's a lilting accent to it that replaces the dread that the rough voices from a moment before had brought with them.

And then an image dances across my vision. A woman, her blonde hair curling around her face. She smiles at me, encouraging me, and I feel myself wanting to respond in kind, but I can't move. I just watch as she starts to move away, then turns and looks back at me with that same beautiful smile.

_"Thomas."_

I feel like I should follow her, should reach out, should say something. My feet won't cooperate, though, and I watch her fade slowly into the darkness as it comes rolling back over me. As it settles in like a thick blanket, I find myself searching for that face again, straining to hear that voice saying my name just one more time…

* * *

The quiet of the afternoon was reassuring—but only to some. For the man sneaking along the treeline, it was much too quiet for comfort. He knew that any small noise might give him away, and there were next to no other sounds to mask any accidental rustling he might cause. And so he made sure to tread carefully, putting one foot in front of the other while continually glancing ahead. Heel, toe, heel, toe… He padded along cautiously, watching for any rogue branches or roots that might crack underfoot or trip him up and send him sprawling, neither of which were a very appealing idea.

He glanced down, noting with pleasure how his green camouflage clothing helped him blend into his environment seamlessly. Patches of sun streamed through periodic breaks in the trees overhead, and he was glad for the grease paint he'd smeared on his face that would help hide any glint of the sunlight off of his tan skin.

Slowly making his way through the undergrowth, he paid no mind to the mosquitoes swarming nearby or the occasional squawk of wildlife. He had one mission, one sole focus, and he was not going to let himself get distracted. Distraction meant almost certain death, and he couldn't let that happen. Too much was hanging in the balance today.

He reached the end of the trees and halted. Pulling a small spotting scope from his pocket, he lifted it to survey the scene ahead of him. Across a small clearing, a cluster of buildings sat surrounded by a tall, cinderblock wall. From the edge of the jungle, all he could make out of the buildings were the tops of their roofs that extended above the walls.

There were two sentries he could see from his side of the compound. Tilting his head, he studied the chain-link gate that secured an opening in the wall. He'd already reconned the entire perimeter; this was his last side to check before deciding on his attack plan. There had only been one other entry into the place on the opposite side of the compound, and that one had been bigger and protected by more guards. If he was going to get in at all, this was where he'd need to make his move.

Granted, it wasn't the most ideal situation, but he had dealt with worse. He could handle this without breaking a sweat

With one last look at the men standing watch, he was satisfied to see neither seemed to have spotted him. Having ascertained that his presence hadn't been noticed, he checked his watch and quietly radioed in his position, then settled to his stomach to wait out nightfall.

It had taken him most of the afternoon to sneak through the jungle and recon the entire compound, so he didn't have long to wait before dusk set in. As it did, he looked at his watch again to check the time. Previous surveillance work told him the guards here changed posts regularly every evening, meaning the perfect time to strike was just near the end of these men's rotation and before a the fresh shift came on. It would be much easier to take down guards who had been standing around in the heat and humidity all afternoon than replacements who had probably just had a good meal and a nap.

That was the plan he and his team had decided on before heading out that morning on their mission. If they hoped to get to the aid workers, hitting now before the shift change was their best opportunity. He knew that, while he would infiltrate from the ground, the others would fly the chopper in and be ready to assist with fire and manpower from above. Then they'd load up the two rescued hostages and evacuate the area.

He checked his watch one last time, counting down the seconds until it was time to make his move, and then he rose from his hiding place in the bushes and hurried a few yards farther down the treeline. Crossing the clearing was one of the most risky parts of the whole plan; the mission would end almost before it started if the guards spotted him too soon—and he preferred not to serve as target practice for a couple of guerrillas, at least not today.

When he was what he deemed a far enough distance away, the camo-clad figure darted across the open space, his legs pumping as he ran through the grass. He was now approximately ten yards from the gate, and he kept a sharp eye on the guards, hoping they wouldn't look in his direction just yet.

He somehow made it to the wall without detection and flattened himself against it, breathing hard. Thankfully, the shadows of the structure now helped hide him from the guards' sight, and he slowly started to make his way along the wall toward the gate.

Just as he was closing the last remaining gap between them, the guard closest to him turned. The armed man's eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth to shout a warning, but that was as far as he got. A fist to his jaw sent him reeling to the ground where he lay, motionless.

The second guard had his gun up and swung it toward the intruder, but he didn't get off a single shot before meeting the same defeat as his partner.

In a moment, both had been relieved of their weapons and one of his hat. Allowing himself a small moment to wipe some of the grease paint from his face with his sleeve, the White Knight smiled and then ducked through the gate of the compound. With any luck, the rest of this operation would be just as easy.

His good fortune continued as he darted unseen from shadow to shadow. In search of one particular building, the one that had been pointed out on a map to him as the location of the hostages, he had to pull up twice and crouch to stay undetected as guards went past. With the way everything looked the same within the walls, he almost felt like he was going in circles. But, finally, he let out a quick sigh of relief as he located the structure.

Glancing around to make sure he was still in the clear, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black case. Selecting the tools he needed, he clenched the case between his teeth and then set about working to pick the padlock that held the door closed. It was slow going in the dark, but he felt he was getting close when the sound of footsteps from behind him caused him to freeze.

Turning slowly, he saw another of the guerrillas staring at him in shock, then the man growled and lunged forward—only to be met by a well-placed, powerful side kick that sent him reeling backward and crashing against the wall of the building opposite them.

Unfortunately, the man recovered too quickly and again rushed for the intruder picking the lock. He drew a large knife from his belt as he moved, and it was only a deft side-step that saved his target from what would surely have been a fatal blow.

With a yell of fury, the guerrilla swung the knife again, and was met this time by a whirl of blocks and punches that soon had him dropping to his knees and gasping for breath. His opponent finished him off with a final smashing fist to his temple, and the man crumpled to the ground.

Case still between his teeth, the White Knight shook out his hand and then turned back to the lock he'd been trying to get through before being so violently interrupted. There was no time to waste, and he soon had the latch undone. Tucking the picks back into the case and then putting everything back into his pocket, he smiled in satisfaction and then swung the door open.

A man and woman were huddled against the far wall; it was likely they had heard the commotion going on outside but had no way to know what was happening. As the moonlight streamed in behind the new arrival, they squinted toward the doorway, trying to make out who was there.

Their rescuer stepped inside and flashed them a brilliant smile. "Come on; it's time to get you home," he said with a wink.

* * *

_(Higgins)_

"Ya know… that's not… exactly what happen'd."

I nearly drop the book in my hands. "Thomas!"

He makes a face, and I belatedly lower my tone. "Sorry," I apologise quietly. Quickly setting the hardback on the bedside table, I stand and reach a hand to feel his forehead. It's cool and dry, and I smile. "How are you feeling?' I ask, my eyes searching his intently.

In answer, he cracks a small grin. "Had better days."

I shake my head and sink back into my chair, moving to gently grab his hand in mind while making sure to mind the IV. "I would imagine so," I reply as I reach over and press the call button on the bedrail.

He turns his head slowly toward me. The smile is still playing at the edges of his mouth as he meets my gaze. It's small, yes, but it's like a breath of fresh air after all we've been through, and I don't want this moment to end.

But, all too soon, it does. Magnum shifts as if to rub his head and freezes as his arm won't follow the command. I see his eyes move downward to take in the restraints on his wrists and then grow wide at the realisation. He looks toward the bottom of the bed, and I can see the panic starting to well up in his expression.

"Thomas," I say with gentle firmness as I grasp his hand a little tighter and rub it encouragingly, trying to draw his focus back to me. "Hey, hey, it's okay. Look, I'm right here."

He darts wild eyes back to me, and my stomach clenches. I can't let his memories take over again; he's just awoken, and I'm not going to lose him to nightmares, not a second time.

"Look at me. Hey," I continue to soothe. "It's okay. Look, see? You're here; you're safe. The nurse will be in any moment now, okay? Just look up here at me. That's it. Good!"

It's a relief as he pulls his gaze to look back at me, but his expression still holds fear and… now sadness as well. I'm not quite sure what to make of it, and I'm worried it's not a good sign.

"Thomas? Are you okay?" I'm tentative, not sure if another memory has somehow been stirred up from the back of his mind.

He swallows and glances away, then back to me, searching my face. "Did…" He trails off, his voice rough. "Did I hurt someone?"

My heart clenches, and I quickly shake my head as I hum comfortingly and rub his hand again. "No, no, shhh," I reassure him. "It's okay."

"Juliet."

The gravelly sound of my name, coming from him, very nearly stops my heart.

"I did, didn't I?" He sounds so tired as he searches my face. "Who? …you?" Then he glances around, and his eyes widen slightly. "The guys?"

"No, no, Rick and T.C. are just outside."

"Who?" he presses quietly.

I shake my head but then pause. Magnum is smart; he knows something went down, even if he doesn't remember what, and I know I can't hide it from him. But I also hesitate to tell him the truth for fear it'll reawaken the memories that drove him into such a dark corner of his mind earlier today.

It seems he takes my silence as an answer, and his face falls. He blinks up at the ceiling before looking back to me. "Are… are they all right?"

"Everyone is fine," I reassure him, reaching up to put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I promise. Don't worry, please." The last thing I want his him making himself worse by stressing about what he might have done.

He looks like he might press further before there's a knock at the door and a nurse pokes her head inside. She takes in the scene before her and smiles at us both.

The next long minutes—it feels like forever but is probably more like half hour—are filled with the bustling of medical staff who poke and prod and ask questions and take readings from the machines around the bed. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my chest when the doctor, having finished talking to Magnum, turns to smile and nod to a nurse, giving the okay for the restraints to be removed. The look on his face as the straps are taken away clenches at my heart, but, when he looks my way, I manage to smile encouragingly from where I've been relegated to the side of the room.

While the doctor is finishing up, I quickly reach for my phone to text the others, who I know are all close by. I'm sure none of them have put their phones away, as I hadn't when I was out there, and expect them to arrive within moments. Sure enough, T.C., Rick, and Kumu all hurry into the room less than a minute later.

It's been a long day with only fitful naps to count as rest for any of us, but that exhaustion I'd seen in everyone's eyes—and know was in mine—not long ago is now replaced by excitement and relief as the three quietly join me along the wall of Magnum's room. I glance between my friends and see guardedly hopeful expressions on all of their faces, and I know they mirror my own.

Magnum looks past the doctor to us and smiles weakly. It's clear just how exhausted the poor man is, but it's also clear just how glad he is to see familiar faces.

I meet his eyes and, again, muster as encouraging a smile as I can. Memories from the past day flicker across my mind, but I squash them as quickly as they come. I know Rick and T.C. are right and nothing that has happened is truly my fault, but that little worm of guilt is still there, threatening to take over once again.

No, I shake my head. No, I can't think that way. Least of all right now. Right now, I need to be here, in the moment, for Magnum.

There will be time enough to worry about everything else later. And, if pushing my feelings and memories aside for the time being means Thomas stays here with me, then I'm more than okay with that.

* * *

_(Rick)_

I glance up at the man sleeping across from me for the umpteenth time since I'd taken over bedside duty. He hasn't stirred since the last time I checked—which, admittedly was only about thirty seconds ago.

Yawning, I stretch my legs out in front of me and rub a hand over my face. The day is starting to catch up with me, and it's only early evening. After Juliet had texted us all that Thomas was awake and we'd piled into the room, we'd been relieved to hear from Doctor Olina that Thomas was recovering well considering everything. But then she'd also raised an eyebrow and insisted all of us couldn't stay in the room at once because it would be too much excitement. Thomas still needed to stay quiet and unexcited.

We didn't necessarily like it, but one look at our friend's drooping eyelids had been all we'd needed to nod in agreement. At least we knew he was on his way back to normal; we could handle having to wait a little longer to get to talk to him.

The others had reluctantly agreed to finally go home to freshen up. Except for Kumu, all of us have been at the hospital since the wee hours of the morning, the only break being our quick trip out to help Katsumoto with the case. We could all use some serious rest right now, but none of us wanted to admit it.

Kumu had sent us all away to shower and get some sleep, but I'd immediately returned to the hospital room after freshening up, ignoring the need for a nap. My excuse was I still had work to do, and I might as well do it while everyone else went home for a bit. She had given me that raised eyebrow look but finally relented and patted me on the shoulder as she'd left.

My excuse isn't a lie; I _do _have work to do for the club that I was planning to do from the office tonight, but it's nothing I can't do remotely. But, if I'm being honest, there's more to it than just wanting to catch up on work. Truth is, I can't bring myself to leave Thomas right now.

As much as what I told Jules is true—dwelling on situations that are out of our control do no one any good—but the memories have been stirred up fresh in my mind and I can't get away from them yet. Every time I think I'm over what went down back in Afghanistan, something happens and stirs those old nightmares up again. And this whole situation with Thomas is apparently the perfect catalyst to make me start reliving that whole hellish experience.

I swipe a hand over my face and glance across the dimly lit room as a noise at the door interrupts my internal dialogue. The nurse enters a moment later, giving me a smile as she makes her way over to the bed.

"Hello again, Rick," she greets me quietly.

"Hey, Sarah," I respond, glad my voice isn't betraying me to the pretty brunette. "How's your night?"

She tilts her head as she evaluates the readout on the machine by the bed. "It's good, thanks. Nothing too exciting happening out there so far. How about you?"

"I can't complain." I wink. "I get to talk to you every hour."

That gets an actual laugh from her. "Well, your luck's about to run out because I get off work in about twenty minutes."

Thomas stirs and opens his eyes as Sarah fiddles with the blood pressure cuff on his arm.

"Sorry," she apologizes.

He lifts a hand halfway. "'s fine."

Finishing up her check-in, Sarah adjusts the blanket draped over the bed. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

My friend cracks a grin. "Not unless you can arrange to get me a steak up here. Well-done. Oh, and a baked potato."

"I feel like Doctor Olina might have my head for that one," the nurse replies with a friendly chuckle. "Sorry."

He makes a face. "Thought you might say that."

"Ignore him," I tell her, winking at Thomas. "He's on a strict vegan diet lately." My smile grows when I see my words having the desired effect.

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Hah, right. You, maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I object, spreading my hands.

"Okay, I think I'll leave you two gentlemen to sort this out on your own." Sarah laughs again. "If you do need anything else, you know where to find me."

I flash her a charming smile. "Bye, Sarah."

"Bye, Rick. Have a good night."

When she ducks out into the hallway again, Thomas rolls his eyes at me. "Really, Rick? Hitting on the nurses?"

"Hey, man, I can't help it if I'm irresistible." I quirk an eyebrow at him.

"Ow, don't make me laugh," he protests.

Oops. I'd kind of forgotten about that. "Right, sorry." Might need to curb the humor just a little for now. I shift and pull my chair a little closer to the bed. "So, how you doin', bud?"

"Oh, you know," he says with a small sigh, "as well as can be expected, I guess."

I pinch my lips together and nod. "Right."

Something on my face must have caught his attention because his eyes flick over it before meeting my gaze again. "Rick, you good, man?"

Me? I blink. "Yeah, yeah; I'm all good. Fine." How do I explain everything happening in my head right now without overwhelming him? I'm under strict orders _not_ to upset him, and recounting the images that have been filling my mind all day is probably not the best way to follow that command.

Judging from the look he gives me, even past his swollen features, he clearly doesn't believe me. He knows me too well.

I glance away from him for a moment and look back to find him still watching me. "Nah, I'm okay," I insist. "Really. It's just… been a long day."

Thomas nods slowly and clears his throat. The low rumble of coughing grows, and I look over in concern as he keeps going. His face is pained, and I wince in sympathy. In the next moment, thankfully, he seems to get under control, and I reach for the cup on the side table. The straw bobbles around in the water as I stand to hold it for him.

"Here," I offer, then add in caution, "Slowly."

He accepts, but I can tell he's less than pleased with the whole situation. I can't say I blame him. After a few sips from the straw, he pulls back, and I set the cup to the side. When I do, he fixes me with a look.

"Rick, there's something bothering you," he says. "And you don't want to tell me because the doc said not to get me excited and you think it'll upset me, right?"

T.M. is sharp; I should've known I couldn't pull one over on him. I still don't want to get him excited, though. Regardless of his accurate assessment, I also don't want to disobey Doctor Olina's strict instructions.

He grinned at me. "Since when have I ever cared about a doctor's instructions?"

That gets a chuckle out of me. He does have a point, though. And if he keeps pushing because he's concerned about me, that's not really resting either. So I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then look back at my friend. "This is just all stirring up a bunch of memories, you know?"

He nods in understanding. "But not just any memories?" he asks quietly. Good ol' T.M.

"You know…" I sigh. "Jules thinks this is her fault," I say tentatively. Although I almost don't want to tell him about that, there's a part of me that decides he needs to know. I'm sure Juliet will never tell him herself.

At that, he lets out a small sigh of his own and nods. "I thought there was something going on," he replies. He sounds tired, and, if I had to guess, he hadn't asked Jules because he wasn't up to the task when she was in here earlier.

"We were putting together a surprise party for you at Robin's," I continue. "She'd decided a sure way to get you over to the main house in the morning was to clean out your fridge."

He hums in realization. "But… it wasn't her fault those guys were at the house."

I nod. "True, but that didn't stop her from feeling absolutely guilty about you being there." I run a hand through my hair. "T.C. and I tried to help her see that."

There's a moment of silence, and Thomas glances away from me. I watch him, taking stock of how tired he still looks and realizing he probably needs to sleep more. I'm about to say as much when he suddenly looks back to me.

"Rick." The expression in his eyes is firm but sad. He doesn't even have to say what he's thinking; I know.

"Yeah," I nod. "I told her. I thought it would help." My throat clenches around the words. It's amazing how, even now, the memories haunt me so tangibly.

He doesn't say anything right away, and we both fall silent. Flashes of memories are playing across my mind, as I'm sure they are for Thomas as well. Then, I hear him clear his throat again, and I glance up.

"Rick," he says, so quietly I have to lean in to catch his words. His eyes look heavy, and they flutter as he glances my way. "You're a good friend," he says with a small yawn that prompts another wince. And then his eyes slip closed.

I watch until his breathing evens out, then sit back and close my own eyes with a sigh. We might never fully be over the memories of our experiences in the camp, but at least we're still together. And, together, we can get through anything.

* * *

_(T.C.)_

I hurry down the hall toward Thomas's room. He's been doing so much better since he woke up yesterday evening and hasn't had any further relapses, but there's a part of me that's still worried something is going to happen when we least expect it.

Although the doctor has told us he's continuing to improve and will be able to move out of ICU soon if his condition keeps up like it is, I still need to see for myself that he's recovering well. After what I've witnessed over the course of the past day—some of the longest thirty-two hours of my life—I know I won't rest easy until the day the doctor finally discharges Thomas and we get him safely home. There's been way too much concern and uncertainty for my comfort; I think I've had enough to last me several lifetimes.

I knock on the door and poke my head inside when I hear Rick call, "Come in."

"Hey, Rick," I greet him, then turn to Thomas with a wide smile. "How's it going this morning?"

"Eh," he replies, flicking a hand in a wave. "Ready to be out of here."

I chuckle as I come over next to the bed. "I bet."

Rick yawns, and I look over at him and shake my head. "You let this guy keep you awake all night?" I ask Thomas, pointing at our friend.

"Haha, thank you very much for your faith in my bedside manner," Rick retorts with a good-natured eye roll.

I pat him on the back. "Nah, we have all the faith in you, Orville. We just also know how much you talk."

That draws a light chuckle from Thomas, who looks like he wants to laugh more but doesn't want to aggravate his side.

Rick just rolls his eyes again. "Well, fine, if that's the way it's going to be, maybe I'll just stay here a little longer to make sure you two don't start telling tales about me." He glances between the two of us, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

"We promise we'll behave," I tell him. "Go on; you need some breakfast."

He gets to his feet, but then he turns back and points between the two of us. "I'm trusting you."

"Scout's honor," I reply, raising a hand.

Thomas nods along. "Promise."

Rick still doesn't look like he believes us, but he just shakes his head and pulls open the door. "See you guys in a bit," he says in parting.

As the door swings shut behind him, I take the seat he vacated and regard my friend lying in the bed. He still looks pale, but nowhere near as severely as he had at first. The dark circles under his eyes have started to lighten, and I'm grateful to see he appears much less drained overall /now. It gives me hope that he really is fully on his way to recovery.

Thomas glances over and catches me watching him. He gives me a reassuring grin. "I'm good, T.C. I promise."

I give him a small smile of my own but don't reply right away. We regard each other for a few moments, then he shakes his head.

"After all we've been through, it's going to take a lot more than some idiot dognappers to take me out." He shifts his hand toward me. "T.C., bud, it's okay. I'm okay. Really."

I manage another smile, this one a little warmer, and nod. He's right; T.M. is tough, and I'm proud to call him a brother. But, "Enough about that," I say. "I think there's a Tigers replay on ESPN this morning. They wouldn't let me bring popcorn, but I think we can survive without it. What do you say?"

* * *

_(Katsumoto)_

It's well into the afternoon after everything went down on the dognapping—and assault—case before I make my way back to the hospital. I'd spent the day before doing paperwork and, when I trailed off in the middle of typing my report for the third time, I'd had to admit to myself I needed sleep. I've put in my fair share of sleepless nights since I'd joined the force years ago, but, after two days of no sleep and two separate fistfights that had left me bruised and injured, it was probably time to call it a day.

Thankfully, I wake to find several texts waiting for me, all from the group at the hospital. I sigh in relief as I scroll through the updates. Magnum is awake and doing much better. I'm sure he'll be back to getting involved in my cases in no time, but I've long-since gotten used to dealing with Thomas Magnum and his antics. The news that he's well on his way to recovery is good to hear.

Checking the time, I nod to myself. I'll stop by the hospital on my way to the office. I still need to get Magnum's statement for the case file, and that's much better done in person than over the phone.

* * *

_(Magnum)_

"I'm serious, Higgy. I really thought they were going to go for me instead of the actual bad guys," I protest, trying my best to look pitiful from my spot in the hospital bed.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Why are you always acting like the lads want nothing more than to eat you for dinner?"

Visions of being chased across Robin's lawn run through my mind. "Uh, because they do?" I start to cross my arms, then rethink the action as I grimace at the way the movement pulls against my side.

A knock comes at the door just then, and I'm grateful Rick and T.C. have arrived just in time to rescue me. When the door opens, however, it's Detective Katsumoto who steps into the room.

"Good afternoon, Detective," Higgy greets him with a smile.

I grin when he looks my way. "I didn't realize we were such good friends that you'd come check on me in the hospital."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, Magnum. I'm only here because I need your statement for my file."

Ah. I nod slowly, wincing when the movement aggravates my headache. "Whatever I can do to help," I say, looking between Higgy and Katsumoto.

"Good." Katsumoto takes out his notebook. "So, I'm sure you've been filled in on the details, but those thieves had hit multiple other homes on the island before they broke into Robin's Nest the other night."

Higgy smiles at that. "Unfortunately for them, they didn't take Magnum or the lads into account."

"'Them'?" I protest, only half-jokingly. "What about me? I got stabbed, you know." I cough as the words scrape at my throat, although I have to admit the dramatic effect is nice. I take back that admission when the pain of the movement aggravates my injuries. Speaking also is taking much more effort than I'd expected, and I just hope I'm not as pale as I probably am.

Beside me, Higgy gives me a slightly raised eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

Katsumoto nods. "I heard. We have the security footage to prove it, but I am still going to need your statement," he adds.

I nod tiredly. "Right."

I'm grateful Katsumoto lets me go slowly as I recount the events from the moment I heard the first noise at the house until the last moment I remember, slipping into unconsciousness on the kitchen floor and sure I hear Higgy at the door. It's halting, and I have to go back a few times to add in details as I remember them.

When I finally finish, I'm exhausted—both from the effort of holding an extended conversation as well as the rush of memories now in my head. I sink back against the pillows and watch as Katsumoto makes some final notes.

Higgy clears her throat, and we both look over at her. "Yes, well, thank you for coming, Detective. I trust you have everything you need at the moment?" She lifts an eyebrow pointedly.

Catching the look she's giving him, Katsumoto nods and flips his notebook closed, tucking it in his pocket. "Sure. If I have any follow up questions, I'll check back in later."

Nodding in satisfaction, Higgy smiles charmingly. "Thank you. We appreciate you coming by."

"No problem," he replies. "Nice seeing you." Then he turns to me. "Get some rest, Magnum; I'll talk to you later." He gives us a parting smile and then ducks out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"Thanks," I say to Higgy, knowing she knows what I mean.

"Yes, well, you're looking quite pale," she informs me. "I'm sure any more visitors can wait until you get some sleep."

I don't protest.

Higgy gets up to turn off the lights, and I smile as I watch her. I might still have miles to go before I can hope to be discharged, and I know I've got a lot to sort through mentally. From experience, I can already say it's going to take me some time, but it's time I have, thanks to my friends.

They're the best friends—family, really—that anyone could ask for. Regardless of how long it will take for me to get back on my feet, I know they'll be there every step of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me through this whole crazy ride! I always love reviews, and getting to hear what you all thought of this story was fantastic. I honestly gave myself a lot of feels writing this story, which was supposed to be a short, slightly humorous/slightly whumpy one-shot and just spiraled out from there.
> 
> Big thanks go out to frankiemcstein for her help with ironing out wrinkles in the plot, helping me stay on course, and feeding my terribly angsty bunnies. Thanks also to dominatempore for also helping with the story details and to OllieCollie from FF for her helpful suggestions and comments. You three really helped make this story what it is, and my fragile writer's ego and I are forever grateful.


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